


Ode to Broken Things

by plumtrees



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Choking, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drinking, First Time, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Piercings, Platonic Relationships, Pole Dancing, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Roleplay, Smoking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: As far as Kindaichi knows, there's only one rule to falling in love with a stripper:Don't.For a man who's lived his entire life by the rules, he's not really very eager to follow this one.





	1. vaguely, life leaks away

**Author's Note:**

> summary of ships: endgame **IwaKin** , onesided **KinKuni** , fwb **OiIwa** , "just business" **UshiIwa** , **KinKuniKage** friendship, background **MatsuHana** and **KageHina**.
> 
>  **Note:** This is also an experiment on non-linear narrative so do pay attention to the dates and times. Also the fic is gonna alternate from Kindaichi and Iwaizumi's POVs per chapter, and depending on how long this ends up, maybe some interludes from other characters. As this is an ongoing fic, I will add tags as I go along.

**01 JULY 2016**  
**22:43**

“Kindaichi.” Iwaizumi’s voice greets, tone reproachful and Kindaichi pauses at the doorway, ears still ringing from the deafening music outside, the slew of anxious thoughts flooding his mind like a defense mechanism: _Maybe this isn’t a good time maybe I should have called what if he’s entertaining a client but Yahaba-san wouldn’t have let me in if he was—_

But Iwaizumi’s alone. He’s halfway out of his clothes, the light teasing along the piercings decorating his nipples, the turquoise charm on his navel, the muscles rippling beneath skin. There’s nothing but his underwear and those fishnet thigh highs, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“I told you not to come on short notice.“

Kindaichi stares, feeling hot and parched and stupid in the way that only Iwaizumi can make him. Iwaizumi doesn’t even wait for him to gather his thoughts, already stalking over to him, reaching out to pluck the cigarette from his slack mouth (it’s a surprise it hadn’t fallen right onto the carpet the moment he caught sight of more than the expected amount of skin). He pushes Kindaichi’s weight down onto the bed, with its velvet sheets and silk pillows clearly made for a purpose more nefarious than sleeping.

“You’re lucky I don’t have any clients lined up right now. You know how I hate cancelling.” he straddles over his thighs, taking the stolen cigarette and fitting it between his own lips, the embers flaring like a dying star as he inhales and sits back.

“You know this shit kills you, right?” he says, hips already moving in a slow, almost lazy grind, and Kindaichi’s frozen, unable to move or breathe or think. “I swear, you’ll be hacking up your lungs before you’re forty.”

He sounds concerned. There’s that bothered furrow in his brow and he sounds concerned and Kindaichi nearly chokes up. Kindaichi stares up at him, at the orange flames reflected in the deep coals of his eyes, the smoke curling and wisping over his face like a veil.

 _What are we doing?_ a familiar voice in his head whispers, the syllables echoing around his head and the hollows of his ears but fading out just before they make it past his mouth. _What are we doing, Iwaizumi-san?_

Suddenly, lips graze his, puckered and soft in what could have been a perfectly chaste kiss, if not for the heat seeping through his parted lips, the heady, earthy aroma swirling in his mouth before sweeping a burning path into his charred lungs.

“Stop that.” Iwaizumi whispers, and he sounds _tired_. “You’re thinking too much again.”

Kindaichi blinks. Nods. From the corner of his vision he sees Iwaizumi put out the cigarette against the ashtray on his nightstand. He has no time to think _what a waste_ because Iwaizumi’s mouth is back on him, the heat and spice of burned tobacco curling into his mouth along with the invading slide of Iwaizumi’s tongue.

He finds Iwaizumi beneath all that smoke: the smell of peppery musk with the calming note of cedar, the taste of cherry lip gloss and burning alcohol. He breathes in a little deeper, opens his mouth wider to let more of him in, because Iwaizumi is the only thing that gets his heart beating like it used to. Because he needs to feel _alive_ again and every sweet press of Iwaizumi’s lips against his sends blood rushing and pumping in his veins like the most potent drug.

He can’t get enough of him. He never wants to.

Iwaizumi’s hands are already making quick work of his shirt, his pants, exposing his body to the cool, stagnant air of his dressing room. Iwaizumi’s torso is hot as it presses against his, but the piercings scrape blunt, unforgiving lines into his skin. They drag electric shocks in their wake, like the first bitter shot of wakefulness in the morning.

He curses softly, delirious with the need to just not _think_. Suddenly, Iwaizumi’s lips are gone. His eyes snap open, staring up at him in confusion. There’s something in his eyes but it’s gone in the precious seconds it takes for Kindaichi to gather his bearings, replaced with something darker, something tempting and seductive and it reminds him of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on him.

“I want you to make me feel good.” Iwaizumi purrs, leaning back in. His lips glisten with wet kisses, lightly fragrant with what remains of his gloss. He’s reaching for the nightstand again, probably dipping into the bowl of condoms and lube packets Kindaichi knows is there. The thrill and anticipation sets him on fire, dulling his brain with the haze of arousal.

He recalls all those times he’s had his fingers in Iwaizumi, how beautifully Iwaizumi had arched and moaned his name, had begged for him, his cock, to fuck him until he passed out. He’d imagined how good it would feel, how tight and hot Iwaizumi would be around him, milking him for an orgasm.

But he can’t. He can’t because no matter how many times Iwaizumi looks up at him with those soulful green eyes and says _fuck me_ he can never tell how much of it is him actually wanting it, how much of it is Iwaizumi wanting him as a person as opposed to servicing him as a client and he can’t—

A trembling sigh escapes through his nose. He wants Iwaizumi. He wants him so much and he doesn’t know how long he can fool himself into thinking that all these nights they’ve spent together are nothing more than business transactions.

“It’s alright.” Iwaizumi is on him suddenly, kissing him, voice even and patient as he grips his chin, pulls him in for a few more pecks. “I wasn’t going to ask. I got something better.”

To Kindaichi’s surprise, Iwaizumi reaches between his own legs, smearing lube between his thighs. He leaves his cock untouched, smirking as he lays on the bed beside him, on his side and facing away.

“Hands.” Iwaizumi prompts, and Kindaichi scrambles to grab him, hand flopping over the dip of his waist. Iwaizumi slips it lower, guides his thumb to help push his panties down, past the silk and garters and right down to the edge of his stockings.

Iwaizumi’s thighs are amazing: toned and thick and powerful, fitting beautifully in Kindaichi’s hand. The fishnets add an interesting layer of sensation, teasing little diamonds of skin bulging from the criss-crossing threads. He automatically goes for the softer, slicked-up skin inside, and Iwaizumi kindly parts his legs for easier access. Kindaichi thinks he knows what Iwaizumi is going for, has watched enough porn to know what to do. He tugs Iwaizumi a little higher to compensate for their height difference, gives into temptation one more time and kisses the back of his head before lining their bodies up, guiding his cock between those glorious thighs.

Instantly, Iwaizumi clenches tight around him. He thrusts slowly, experimentally. The physics of it all is so foreign to him, the mechanics so different from how he fucks Iwaizumi’s throat or his own fist. It’s harder to move with another body, but Iwaizumi’s helping him along, hand reaching back to lead him into a rhythm, hips rolling, trying to keep time with every entry. He shifts his grip, slips his hand up to Iwaizumi’s trembling stomach and pulls him in, drags his other hand from under Iwaizumi to press against his sternum and flatten his back against his chest, nails catching on his nipple piercings. His head is hooked over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, and Iwaizumi turns his head just enough to kiss along the side of his face.

“Is this good for you too?” Kindaichi murmurs, meeting him halfway in a peck. Iwaizumi smirks, rolling his hips back, thighs moving in a way that tears a gasp from him.

“I’m sure you can help get me there.” Iwaizumi whispers, lifting a hand to fit over Kindaichi’s, the one over his stomach, and suggestively pushes it lower.

Kindaichi obediently reaches down, fists Iwaizumi’s cock and tugs in time with his thrusts, ripping a surprised, breathy moan that drives a shiver right down to his bones. He feels taut muscle beneath skin, sweat pooling in the cuts of his muscles as Kindaichi starts up a steady beat. His cock fits right under Iwaizumi’s, nestled beneath his balls, grinding against them with every thrust.

“Oh god, baby.” Iwaizumi whines, head tilting back to rest on his shoulder, his short, spiky hair tickling over his neck. “That’s right. You’re so good, fucking me just right, Kindaichi—”

Kindaichi growls, bucking harder, the lewd sound of slick skin smacking together filling the air. He can’t see much of Iwaizumi from this angle but he can nuzzle beside his head and mouth over his shoulders, peek at how his nipples are stiff between his fingers, how red his cock is in his fist, how the navel charm bounces and swings as Kindaichi’s hips slide home. Iwaizumi continues to sing his praises as Kindaichi jerks him off the way he likes, bringing the foreskin up over the head, thumb flicking against the tip before pulling it back down.

“Faster, Kindaichi, please, I’m so close.”

“Me too.” he groans, practically rutting between Iwaizumi’s thighs. “Iwaizumi-san, you feel so good. God.”

Iwaizumi’s head turns, his breath hot and humid against his temple.

“Come on my thighs.” that filthy, _filthy_ mouth pleads. “Come on. Come all over me, I know you like that. Give it to me—”

He groans—just barely managing to remember that he can’t bite down on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his jaw clenching until his temples hurt with it—as he pushes in just enough to release all over Iwaizumi’s inner thighs. His hand unconsciously spasms at the upstroke and that does it for Iwaizumi too, warmth flooding Kindaichi’s fist, the body held against him trembling from his orgasm.

“Thank you.” Iwaizumi gasps, stroking over the arm wrapped around his chest. He tugs at his wrist, pulling it up to lay butterfly kisses along his knuckles. “That was amazing, you were perfect, Kindaichi.”

Kindaichi lies there—sweaty, dazed, content—and simply breathes.

 

-

 

 **02 JULY 2016**  
**01:20**

He comes home a thousand seconds, minutes, strained breaths later. The foyer lights are on. He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the silhouette standing with its arms crossed in the middle of the hallway, but it doesn’t reciprocate the courtesy, breaking the silence with a venomous hiss.

“You smell disgusting.”

Kindaichi agrees. Sex isn’t exactly the most appealing scent, regardless of who it’s with.

“Sorry.” he mumbles, clumsily kicking off his shoes. “I thought Iwaizumi-san’s perfume would be enough to cover it up.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Kunimi’s voice slips past his shoulder as he walks past, like a physical entity bearing righteous judgement over him. “You smell like a cheap prostitute.”

“Pretty sure Hermes is anything but cheap.” he shoots right back, irritation spiking his tone. "So did you stay up just so you could lecture me? That's a nice sentiment.”

“You’re getting attached.” Kunimi grinds out, the skin between his eyebrows bunching up in rare anger. “Kindaichi you’ve been seeing this stripper every week, you _text_ him for fuck’s sake—”

“Stop.” he snarls. Kunimi’s eyes go wide. He doesn’t know how it happened, but he suddenly he’s too close, that his hand is curled around something thin, something breakable. He lets go of Kunimi’s arm and watches him stumble back, the guilt dulled by rage and emotional fatigue.

“Stop calling him that.” he whispers. Kunimi keeps his gaze to the floor but his hands dig trenches into his sleeves, twitching restlessly. Kindaichi knows what he’s thinking, can see it in the defiant line of his lips, the lines that sink deeper on the corners. He can hear every word even when it fails to make its way out of his best friend’s mouth. He knows all this because they’re words— _truths_ —his own mind whispers to him at night, truths that he still refuses to acknowledge.

“I’m just worried about you.” slips out of Kunimi’s lips. Kindaichi blinks down at them: chapped and bitten with worry. He’s always had eyebags but they’re darker now, welled beneath his skin like a shadow and the guilt feels heavier now.

He reaches up. He doesn’t miss how Kunimi flinches back but he tries not to let it deter him. He reaches up and cups the back of his head, gentle, letting him know that there’s a back door, but Kunimi only leans into his grip, tips forward when he pulls him onto his shoulder. He brings the other arm up and over him. Whispers _yes, I know. I’m sorry. It was a rough day_ into his hair. He feels a sigh blow over his ear, hands slipping and shuffling against his sides before settling on his back.

He thinks about how long it’s been since he’s held Kunimi like this: a year ago, when he was essentially lost and homeless with his life falling in shambles all around him. Back then, it had felt right—safe—holding Kunimi. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Back then, it had been all he needed to feel better.

He wonders why, now, all the can think about is how the hair against his cheek is too flat, too smooth; how there’s something off about the fresh, aquatic scent that accompanies every inhale; how the body in his arms feels too slender, too tall, too…

He doesn’t know how long that lasts, but when reality has him in its grip again, he’s alone in the darkness, Kunimi’s warmth still settled into his skin. He shoves a hand into his pockets in search of his cigarettes, trembling fingers fumbling, pausing when they hit nothing but impeccably-stitched seams.

Goddammit.

 

-

 

 **04 JULY 2016**  
**14:39**

Kindaichi silently taps his pen against his notes. Moniwa flashes the next slide, laser pointer moving in confident arcs over graphs and flowcharts. It’s all very impressive. Kindaichi thinks. Maybe. If he actually has any idea what this business meeting is all about.

Kindaichi tries to swivel in his chair to glance at Kageyama’s expression, and his lips morph to a frustrated line. His boss’s face is blank—the not-paying-attention kind of blank—and is staring at a spot just above the digital screen. Kindaichi hears a very, very faint buzz and Kageyama’s eyes immediately dart down to his lap, both hands slipping off the desk. A few seconds later he’s smiling (or at least Kageyama’s version of a smile) and Kindaichi knows only one person who can ever summon a smile out of their perpetually-sour CEO.

He rolls his eyes subtly. So the reason he’s here is because his boss can’t be bothered to focus for an hour-long meeting and needs him to take notes instead. He slips his phone out of his pocket, types a quick _pay attention!_ and presses send. The buzz is heard again but this time the trademark scowl returns to Kageyama’s face. Ah. Much better.

Kageyama only spares him a glare, very pointedly shoving his phone in his breast pocket and staring straight at the screen, where Moniwa is now discussing floor plans for the latest branch. Kindaichi nudges his chair back to its original position, perfectly smug.

He’s about to shut his phone but his fingers pause over the lock button, eyes hovering to the message exchange labeled **Iwaizumi-san** , just under Kageyama’s and Kunimi’s names. The last text there is a selfie from Iwaizumi, a cigarette held loosely between his lips, Kindaichi’s lighter and what remains of the packet pinched between middle and index fingers. _You left your cancer sticks_ the caption says.

He knows from the timestamp that it was taken just a little after he left, and his stomach churns when the memory hits him. He’d avoided texting Iwaizumi all weekend. Some half-assed attempt to prove Kunimi wrong, maybe. He wonders if Iwaizumi even noticed. Probably not. He shakes off that train of thought before he upsets himself any further.

Still, his fingers itch to type something. Even more when he swipes over the screen and looks back on all of Iwaizumi’s unsolicited selfies. Some, a little too risqué, he swipes over quickly, but he lets himself smile at the pictures of him looking normal, looking nothing like the sex god he usually is at shift, only a bare face and open, sincere smiles. He spends a second or two looking over photos of Iwaizumi’s succulents, growing happily on his bedroom desk, of Iwaizumi hugging a large Godzilla plush to his chest, captioned with _Good night, Kindaichi_.

Before he knows it, the keyboard is already out, the cursor on his message bar prompting for a message. He chews his lip in thought before typing _What are you doing?_. Will that seem to demanding? Too expectant? _Good afternoon_ seems safe. If not horribly formal and meaningless. He types a few characters out, switches from polite to informal speech as a split-second decision, then presses send.

 **Sent: 14:47, Jul 04**  
_Bored :(_

He doesn’t expect the reply to come so quickly, but barely a minute later his phone lights up in his hands, the message alert filling up his screen.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:48, Jul 04**  
_I don’t recall being paid to entertain you outside of work hours, Kindaichi._

Kindaichi pauses. Bites his lip. He’s already halfway through sending a hurried apology text when another bubble bumps the chat history up.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:48, Jul 04**  
_Calm down. I could hear you thinking from all the way over here. I was kidding._

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:48, Jul 04**  
_Nothing much going on really. What’s up?_

He exhales in relief, hand coming up to calm his heart. He schools his expression when Moniwa’s gaze darts over to him.

 **Sent: 14:48, Jul 04**  
_Nothing much here either. Just…work._

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:49, Jul 04**  
_Maybe it’s time to get a more exciting job. We have an opening._

Kindaichi almost snorts, but before he can type up an equally witty reply, another message interrupts him.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:49, Jul 04**  
_Are you alone?_

 **Sent: 14:50, Jul 04**  
_No_

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:50, Jul 04**  
_Too bad_

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:50, Jul 04**  
_Guess what I’m wearing_

Kindaichi’s brows knit together. That seems like an odd thing to bring up. He takes a peek at the weather outside, warmer than usual but the sheer amount of clouds offset the heat. He wonders if it’s going to rain.

 **Sent: 14:50, Jul 04**  
_That depends. Where are you?_

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:51, Jul 04**  
_You’re a fucking trip you know that?_

Kindaichi raises an eyebrow. Was that the wrong answer somehow? He’s still getting used to some of Iwaizumi’s games. Playful teasing and innuendo-laced little jabs aren’t something he’s ever been used to, considering Kunimi had been his only true companion growing up. His college friends were crass, spewing fast, accented vulgarities in dialect and broken English, but it’s not like he remembers much from his time hanging out with them.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:51, Jul 04**  
_At home. In my room. Those clues good enough for you, Sherlock?_

 **Sent: 14:51, Jul 04**  
_Uhh…a shirt? Boxers?_

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:52, Jul 04**  
_Not anymore_

**Iwaizumi-san has sent an image.**

He’s pretty sure the blood rushes up his face so fast it’s practically audible. His eyes dart around the meeting room. Kageyama is once again on his phone. Everyone else focused on Moniwa’s presentation. He adjusts slightly, angling so that there’s no risk of anyone taking a peek at his screen. A sensible voice in his head tells him to wait until the meeting is over, but once again, as with all the other times Iwaizumi is involved, that voice is oddly muffled.

He clicks the link and the cyclic path of the loading screen taunts him. In the precious seconds spent waiting his traitorous brain conjures up a world of possibilities, none of them anywhere near appropriate.

Finally, the screen bursts with color, and—

It’s nothing too raunchy (and Kindaichi needs to reevaluate his life choices because he can’t believe he’s _disappointed_ that he didn’t actually get nudes in the middle of a meeting). It’s a photo of a shirt and boxers on plain white sheets, looking slightly ruffled, as if they’d just been peeled off and tossed away. He blinks at it for a while, allowing himself a smile at the Godzilla print on the shirt and the light playing off the fabric of the boxers. Silk?

**Iwaizumi-san has sent an image.**

Kindaichi swallows. Closes the image and reopens his text exchange with Iwaizumi to see a new image download link just below the first one.

He clicks fast, and when the image loads it’s Iwaizumi taking a photo of his reflection...completely dressed in a loose shirt and sweats...holding a laundry basket?

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:55, Jul 04**  
_Kidding. Just sorting laundry_

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 14:55, Jul 04**  
_Get back to work, Kindaichi_

He doesn’t know how long he spends with his head down like that, staring at his phone in muted shock, but his phone buzzes again—

 **From: Kageyama**  
**Received: 14:56, Jul 04**  
_pay attention_

Fuck. The bastard’s going to rub this in his face for days to come. He straightens up and fixes his seat, pointedly ignoring his boss’ smug smirk.

He should probably start on that will. Iwaizumi Hajime will be the death of him.

 

-

 

 **10 JUNE 2016**  
**22:58**

Kindaichi knows he shouldn’t be here.

Drinking on a Friday night is a monthly thing, just unwinding with his colleagues and his boss after a stressful week at work. Kageyama paid for everything anyway, which always encouraged everyone to let loose, but this place is nothing like the easy atmosphere of the _izakaya_ they frequent. When he’d entered he’d immediately felt a little sick. The lights are blinding, the spin of the strobelights make him dizzy. The music is too loud and the bass is so heavy it echoes in his chest hard enough to hurt. His only saving grace is that they’d been led to a closed-off booth, the sounds and sights are a little bit more muted, but it still doesn’t help the unease sitting in his belly that his colleagues and his _boss_ brought him to a _gay stripclub_.

The curtains to their booth part just enough for a waiter to slip a drink on their table, letting in a bit of the aqua glow from the stage. Kindaichi quickly looks down in embarrassment when he catches sight of an oil-slicked pole with a lean, scantily-clad dancer wrapped around it.

He doesn’t know who let loose in the office that he’s gay. He supposes it’s not an issue because it’s practically an open secret that Kageyama is living with his long-time boyfriend, but it’s still slightly distressing when they use that information to _get him laid_ , or so they say.

Kindaichi knocks back another shot of Jose Cuervo, lips immediately closing around the lime wedge and sucking, wonders how and when exactly his sex life became such a production for everyone in the office. Surely the fact that he’s a gay virgin at 23 isn’t _that_ interesting, right?

“Hey.” Kageyama barks from beside him and Kindaichi looks up. Kageyama has his phone held loosely in one hand, in the other is a drink that looks like it’ll be more at home in a milkshake bar than a strip club. “Can you please relax? This is supposed to be your birthday party.”

His jaw clenches, but he supposes _Hey, I never asked to be brought to a gay stripclub. What was wrong with a few beers and a barbecue?_ will never be appropriate to say to his boss, current circumstances and three years as middle school friends notwithstanding. Instead, he forces a smile, chasing off the last of the tequila with a beer and laughing and cheering along with the rest of his colleagues, even though he has no idea what the ruckus is about.

But the laughter dies on his mouth when he finally realizes what the ruckus _is_ about. There’s an extra person in the booth, completely out of place in nothing more than black, lacy underwear and a harness, dark leather spiderwebbing artfully over miles and miles of bare, bronzed skin. One would think that he’s little more than prey, a deer amongst suit-clad wolves, but he holds himself with the confidence of a fighter, chin held high and a haughty smirk curving up those gleaming lips.

“Happy birthday, Kindaichi!” Terushima crows from the end of the booth. Everyone follows suit, then starts up an impromptu round of the birthday song, harmonizing about as well as a bunch of drunk salarymen, and he watches the dancer’s amused gaze circle the booth, stopping to meet his.

With feline grace, he vaults himself over the table, glasses tinkling with the force of his landing. The hooting and catcalling start up again, growing progressively wilder as the dancer stalks over to Kindaichi, on his hands and knees, the angle providing a very generous view of his shoulders and arms as the neon lights stroke over his muscles.

When he reaches the edge of the table he crawls forward a little bit further, hands reaching for the backrest and dangerously leaning forward, crowding Kindaichi into the seat.

He doesn’t dare look up to meet those eyes. But looking down doesn’t seem like such a polite option either, with how his chest is practically shoved up against Kindaichi’s face. Okay, that was an exaggeration because they’re not exactly _touching_ but the decorative leaf inlays of his harness is already grazing the tip of his nose and oh dear god are those _nipple piercings_?

He takes a breath and it’s a mistake because his scent floods his nostrils. He smells like money, heavy and dizzying but just beyond that he smells woodsy and peppery, lightly earthy and masculine and just that hint of sweat that gets Kindaichi a little bit hot under the collar.

“You must be the birthday boy.” the dancer says, voice surprisingly gruff, loud enough to carry over the music. Kindaichi carefully directs his gaze up, follows the straps up to where they converge on his neck, disappearing beneath a collar that cinches tight around that thick neck. Oh, god.

“How did you—”

“Birthday celebrants usually don’t sing themselves a happy birthday.” he chuckles, shifting slightly, the lines of tension melting off his arms like he’s convinced Kindaichi isn’t dangerous. He fidgets uncomfortably when it hits him how often these dancers must encounter customers of that kind. “Kindaichi, right? I’m Hajime.”

Kindaichi nods, out of words now that introductions have been swept off the table. Hajime doesn’t seem to be waiting for a reply though, lowering himself a little so that they’re face-to-face. His teeth are a slip of pearl-white between plush pink lips. “Now, what would you want for your special night?”

“It’s not. Well. Not anymore.” he stutters, eyes nervously darting about. “It was June 6th. My birthday. I mean.”

He hears someone groan in the booth, followed by a muffled _whap_ like someone being hit over the head, then anticipatory silence. He stiffens, remembering that his colleagues are still here, that his _boss_ is still here, and they’re all watching him awkwardly flirt with a stripper.

“Hey,” Hajime whispers, and it’s just a tad bit softer now, like it’s only meant for him, “relax.”

It probably wasn’t hard for him to notice the sudden shift, what with how close they are. Kindaichi tries, but he’s hypersensitive all of a sudden, and he can hear Kageyama tapping away on his phone, ice clinking against glass as they sip on their drinks while they watch the proceedings.

When he takes another breath it’s filled with the smokiness of the booth, none of the earthen musk of Hajime’s skin. He looks up and Hajime’s gone, leaned back to sit properly on the table, angled at the waist and facing their audience.

“Everyone, at this point I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I believe I was only paid enough to entertain one client?”

His voice is pleasant, but there’s a firm undertone of a command in it, and immediately Kageyama stands up, still taking a sip from his drink. Everyone follows suit, sending him winks and suggestive gestures before disappearing behind the curtains.

“Enjoy your present.” Misaki calls out behind her, giving a lewd flick of her tongue before she leaves. Iwaizumi breathes out a laugh and suddenly Kindaichi isn’t sure exactly who she was referring to.

“Now, where were we?”

Iwaizumi turns to face him, And Kindaichi does what he does best when left alone in the presence of beautiful people:

He sinks into the seat with a groan, hands coming up to cover the blush spreading over his face.

“God, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“My name’s not god. It’s Hajime.” Hajime tuts, and bare feet come up to rest against his hips, caging him into place. Fuck are those _leather cuffs_ on his ankles? “I’d prefer it if you use that instead.”

Kindaichi takes a deep breath. And another. His hands peel away from his face but all it takes is the sight of shadows dipping into those collarbones and whatever measly bravado he had to begin with crumbles to the floor beneath him.

“I’d...uhh…I’d rather not, Hajime-san.”

Hajime quirks a brow, face unreadable. “Why?”

“Because,” damn how is he supposed to think straight with a foot dragging down his thigh like that, “isn’t it too impolite of me to use your first name? We just met. Sort of.”

Hajime blinks, painfully slowly, his mascara-laden lashes practically dragging over air. “You’re worried about being too informal with a _stripper_.”

His tone is patronizing, and it strikes a chord in Kindaichi that gets his brows furrowing in genuine irritation. “You’re a person. What’s wrong with treating you like one?”

Hajime’s face remains blank for all of five seconds, then he’s shaking his head, a lopsided smile replacing the neutral scowl.

“You’re such a character, you know that?.”

Kindaichi blinks. “Is that a good thing?”

“Sometimes,” Hajime’s lips thin out, like he’s remembering something he’d rather not. “Yes in this case though.”

There’s silence for a while, Kindaichi unsure of whether to say anything when Iwaizumi looks so deep in thought, but the tableau breaks and he’s smiling at him again, slipping his foot from Kindaichi’s thigh and bracing them on the edge of the seat.

“Okay, baby. Since you asked so nicely, just call me Iwaizumi.”

“Iwaizumi-san.” Kindaichi repeats, nodding.

“Alright. Now that that’s over with,” Iwaizumi suddenly launches himself forward, landing neatly on Kindaichi’s knees as he squeaks in surprise, hands automatically coming up to brace his back, keep him from falling.

“Rule number 1,” Iwaizumi says, reaching back and primly plucking Kindaichi’s hands off of him, “you don’t grab unless I allow it. But since that obviously didn’t mean any harm I’ll let it slide.”

Kindaichi rips his hands away, like he’s been burned. “I’m sorry! I just—”

Iwaizumi hushes him sternly, finger pressing against his lips. “I already said it’s fine. Now,” he shifts to get a bit more comfortable, his wrists coming up to rest on his shoulders, “you still haven’t told me what you’re into.”

“You don’t actually have to do anything anymore. I—this was all just—”

“The blond told me a lot of interesting things about you, you know.” Iwaizumi interrupts, and the thought of _Terushima_ of all people telling Iwaizumi about him makes him blush so hard he’s sure his face is going to melt off. “Your friends paid good money to make sure you have a good time. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather _earn_ my keep.”

Iwaizumi’s thumbs are digging into the undersides of his jaw, relaxing circular motions. He takes deep breaths in time with it, willing his heartbeat to calm down.

“Who says I’m not have a good time right now? Just talking to you?”

Iwaizumi pauses, eyes wide, like he’s genuinely caught off-guard. Kindaichi feels a burst of pride for that one.

“God, you’re so fucking _cute_.” Iwaizumi growls, and Kindaichi thinks that the little twitch of his hands might just be him trying to keep from pinching Kindaichi’s cheeks.

“You don’t have to lie though.” he says, and his voice is a tired whisper, like he’s so used to being fed kind, sweet lies that he’s grown sick of it. “You’re tense as fuck, it’s making _me_ nervous.”

Kindaichi wants to reassure him, somehow, but Iwaizumi’s dangerously close, his scent more potent, more intoxicating. “I can help you get some of that edge off, if you let me.”

He swallows thickly. He can practically taste Iwaizumi’s every exhale, and it tastes like the very first time he’d ever kissed a man, tastes like something dark and forbidden and everything he’s ever wanted. He nods, finally, and Iwaizumi’s lips twitch upwards, a soft smile, before he’s leaning in and meeting him in a kiss.

It’s nothing too intense, nothing too mind-blowing. It’s the innocent press of lips, the smell of cherries filling his nose. He doesn’t know who starts it but suddenly his mouth is open, a tongue confidently slithering in and gliding across his teeth, over his tongue, coaxing it into a dance. He has no idea what he’s doing, angles his head wrong and winces when teeth clack against each other, but Iwaizumi’s hands come up and hold him there, keep him steady and anchored as he plunges deeper into his mouth and works his magic.

He kisses like…well…like a professional. Like he’s been doing it all his life. And Kindaichi guesses that’s not too far from the truth. When he pulls back Kindaichi’s eyes peel open, tongue peeking out a little to lick at the cherry flavor left on his lips. Iwaizumi chuckles, thumb reaching out to wipe the gloss off.

“Sorry about that.” he mutters.

“It’s fine.” Kindaichi answers, swallows down the rest of his words because he’s not sure if _I like it_ can be misconstrued as something else. He doesn’t have a chance to dwell on it any further because Iwaizumi’s tugging up his hands, bringing them to cup over his ass. It’s a smooth, supple thing: firm and full, both globes fitting nicely into his hands, the tips of his fingers dipping dangerously into the cleft. The lace embroidery tickles the pads of his fingers, an interesting static-y sensation. He doesn’t realize he’s sweeping his fingers over it until Iwaizumi laughs.

“You like that?”

“I’m...” he pauses, embarrassed, “I’m not sure, I’ve never...”

Iwaizumi hums, “A good boy like you, of course you haven’t.”

Kindaichi shudders, completely unbidden, and something sparks in Iwaizumi’s eyes. Those green orbs are suddenly bright and focused, like a predator smelling blood.

“Not even sneaking off to the bathrooms back in school? No fooling around in toilet stalls or broom closets?”

“N-Never.”

“Well then,” a smug smirk, fingers slipping off his shoulders and dragging down, _down_ to hook into his trousers. “guess it’s on me to show you exactly what you’ve been missing.”

Iwaizumi leans in for a slow, gentle kiss before crawling down the length of his body, legs unfolding from his sides to kneel on the floor. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

And he does, stubbornly fighting the instinctive flicker of his lashes when Iwaizumi’s nimble fingers make quick work of his belt buckle and buttons, before freeing his cock with just his teeth. He’s already hard, leaking and all too eager and Iwaizumi lets out a pleased little rumble when their eyes meet.

“ _Good_ boy.”

The praise comes like a purr this time, slow and deliberate. His face burns when his cock gives an obvious twitch, swiping precum over Iwaizumi’s cheek where he’s nuzzling the head. Iwaizumi gives a triumphant little chuckle, and one of his hands come up to press a finger against the tip, gently gliding down the length of his cock. Even with the feather-light touch, Kindaichi groans, head tipping back into the seat, eyes falling shut—

“Kindaichi,” Iwaizumi snaps, voice deep and commanding and _oh god did he just squirt again_ , “what did I say?”

His eyes snap open, head quickly angling to look down at Iwaizumi between his legs. His smudged, smoky eyes are narrowed in warning. His eyes drag back to his crotch but the message is clear: _do that again and I stop_.

Iwaizumi grips his cock loosely, carefully, like he’s feeling his way through it, mapping out where and how to touch. The fingers curl over the skin, pulling back to expose the head and he thumbs the slit, warm breath fanning over the head and sending tingles of foreign pleasure all the way to his toes.

“Tell me if I’m doing something you don’t like.” Iwaizumi murmurs, above the sounds of a wrapper being ripped open, and Kindaichi watches him pour lube on his cock, just enough to ease the friction of his strokes. He groans when Iwaizumi drags his fist all the way to the base, then pulls up, just past the head, other hand coming up to replace the grip as soon as the other leaves.

“I don’t think—” Kindaichi whines when he does it again, a little tighter this time, “I don’t think that’s possible, Iwaizumi-san.”

“Sweet talker.” Iwaizumi laughs, and the sound of it goes straight to his cock, the same way _good boy_ did, and if Iwaizumi notices then he doesn’t say. A hand eases his thighs farther apart and he relents. Iwaizumi immediately cups his balls, rolling them between fingers and his palm, thumb digging into his perineum, and Kindaichi whines, tries to wriggle away from the touch because he’s so close to blowing it’s embarrassing.

“Iwaizumi-san,” he shakes his head, still keeping his eyes open. “I can’t, I’m going to...”

“Then come.” Iwaizumi says, conversational. His cock twitches in Iwaizumi’s expert hands again. “Whatever you want, baby. Do it.”

He grunts, a raw noise from deep in his throat when Iwaizumi’s thumb digs just under his head, circling and alternating with quick pumps and just the perfect type of smooth pressure that gets his hips bucking for more.

His hand is slick and warm, rough enough for a bite to be there when it grazes the head. His ragged breath hits the air, lids flicking with every squeeze, stroke. The sounds are even more shameless now that Iwaizumi’s bombarding him, both hands working to push him off the edge.

“That’s right. That feel good?” white is already weeping out of his slit, beading up and dripping down, creating a mess of Iwaizumi’s fist. “Are you gonna come for me, baby?”

Iwaizumi twists his wrists, clenches a little harder on his balls and he’s choking on one last moan, cock pulsing as cum spurts out of him. He watches it catch against Iwaizumi’s cheek, streaking over the leather strips over his chest, the firm jut of his clavicle, and he wants to burn this image into his mind, wants to reach out and smear his seed over those glossed lips, wants his thumb in that mouth, cheeks hollowing around him as Iwaizumi licks off every single trace of his cum.

He shakes his head quickly, straining to shake off the visual before his cock gets too interested. Iwaizumi’s already getting up, sitting back on the table and tugging a napkin from under an abandoned glass to wipe his hands.

“What about you?” he lets out between heaving gasps.

“Such a gentleman.” Iwaizumi coos again, though there’s something warmer in his tone this time around, “but I’m afraid that’ll cost your friends extra.”

“I’ll pay. I don’t mind.” he answers hurriedly, hands awkwardly hovering in thin air, not sure if he’s still allowed to touch. The fond smile returns to Iwaizumi’s face as he looks at him, and something tugs at the back of Kindaichi’s throat. An itch. A niggling need that he can’t quite place.

“Maybe next time, baby.” Iwaizumi whispers, punctuates it with one more cherry-flavored kiss. “Maybe next time.”

Iwaizumi gently cleans him off too, tucking him back in and zipping him up. The atmosphere is strangely intimate, new yet comfortingly familiar. He’s pliant from the orgasm, soft and hungering for each easy crumb of affection Iwaizumi throws at him. Iwaizumi gives his knee a final pat, sashaying out of the booth, the sway of his hips like a hypnotist’s pocketwatch.

He notices it just as he finishes catching his breath: a gold earring shaped like a leaf, inlaid with a diamond, stark against the black of the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/156150912431/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-1-vaguely-life) for chapter 1


	2. all the empty corners of my body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturday is my usual update day for this fic but I'll be celebrating CNY with my S/O tomorrow and it might last all day, so I'm posting this early!
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank [N](http://n3ongold3n.tumblr.com) for beta-reading the first two chapters! And for giving me ideas re: this fic to begin with!

**01 JULY 2016**  
**22:28**

Iwaizumi stares at the mirror, gives his lips one last swipe of tint before angling his head here and there, watching the light glisten along the pink curve of his smile. He gives his reflection a wink to practice, one eye disappearing behind smoky lids. As a final touch, he pats down the arch of his cheekbones with a few speckles of star-shaped glitter. Horribly tacky, if he does say so himself, and an utter bitch to get off, but Mizoguchi likes it, and when Mizoguchi is happy, it usually means an extra zero in his paycheck. Two if he blows him while he’s actually signing the damn thing.

“You called?”

He glances up at Yahaba, the younger boy smiling right back as he steps into Iwaizumi’s dressing room. He has the sailor outfit on, abdomen flawless and firm between the crop top and the aqua booty shorts, face immaculately made up with dabs of glitter on his pale blue eyeshadow and a hint of clear gloss on nude lips. His boots are heavy against the floor but he crosses over in three long strides, plucking the pencil liner out of Iwaizumi’s waiting hand.

“You’d think after half a year in this industry, you’d be an expert in this, Iwaizumi-san.”

“Eight months and two weeks.” Iwaizumi corrects flatly, spinning in his chair and tilting his head up. Even then, Yahaba’s fingers curl beneath his chin, manicured nails like the glide of tiny blades against his jaw. Yahaba’s thumb presses below his eye and pulls to drag the skin down. He fights the flinch at the first brush of the pencil against his waterline, rolling his eye upwards to keep it out of the way.

“Mad Dog told you not to do that.” Yahaba tuts, thumbnail pricking his skin lightly. “It’ll only make your eyes water.”

Iwaizumi hums disapprovingly at the nickname. “You’ve been hanging around Oikawa too much.”

Yahaba scoffs as he moves on to his other eye. “Don’t worry, Iwaizumi-san, I know better than to move in on a taken man. Especially yours.”

“He’s not—”

A knock echoes from the door, a voice following to tell him he’s up next. Iwaizumi calls back an idle acknowledgement while Yahaba appraises him for a moment. He holds his breath when the setting spray is held up towards his face, the mild dampness settling over his mask and sealing in the illusion.

“Go get ‘em, ace.” Yahaba murmurs, backing up with an encouraging smile.

Iwaizumi nods in return, runs a hand through his outfit one last time. For tonight: a black vest with a neckline that dips low enough to expose his pecs, vinyl panties stretching tight over his crotch. The fishnet stockings fit just right, ending high on his thighs, held by garters running up his sides. He flicks playfully at the charm dangling on his navel, a gift from Ushijima.

He takes the blazer from the back of his chair before heading out, but the extra layer does nothing to protect him from the chill, nipples hardening beneath his clothes as the cold seeps into the barbells. Dancers flit past him, clutching bills and their discarded costumes to their chests. In every corner and crevice it seems there’s someone getting dressed, preparing for their shift, faces blue from the cold or the glow of the strip lights. The tremor of their hands and the clumsy little tangles in their costumes speak volumes to Iwaizumi. Amateurs. Newbies. Mostly winding up around these parts because they needed money and they were pretty enough to get it here. Some of them will be gone by tomorrow. The lucky few will eventually find themselves where Iwaizumi is, the prized dancer with his own dressing room and a long, long list of clients who pay for more than just his rent.

The music grows louder with every step, flowing into his body like oxygen. By the time he climbs up the stairs to the platform the beats are just dying down, his song getting ready to queue up. He takes a deep breath, revels in the anticipatory silence building just past the velvet curtains.

The first sax notes fill his ears, and when the beat finally drops he parts the curtains with a flourish, hip cocked. The lights are blinding as they follow him down the runway. He walks, a spectacle for the crowd of shadowed faces, with their smokes and drinks and their bright, greedy eyes.

He grips high on the pole and slinks right against it, swings a leg over and he leans back, an arm falling to lie limp behind him. He rolls his shoulder just so, letting his jacket fall away to expose a shoulder. The place is fully air-conditioned, but his body is hot under the searing gaze of the spotlight and his patrons. He slides down, back curving behind him in a theatric show of flexibility, and the angle grinds his crotch against the metal. He rolls his hips suggestively and breathes out an overplayed moan to fill the beat of silence in the music. Once it picks up again, he grabs the pole with both hands and spins.

His nerves are alight with euphoria, taking in the throbbing beats that echo across the hollows of his chest, the neon lights tracing paths across his body. His body stretches and aches satisfyingly as he makes a show of himself on the stage, rolling his ass back against the pole like it’s someone’s cock, biting his lip, eyes hooded.

The music slows down, just as Iwaizumi stands front and center. He rests his head against the pole, hands above him slowly peeling away from the heated metal and sliding its way down his neck, his clavicle, pausing to circle around the obvious peaks of his pierced nipples before finally ripping his jacket off and away, tossing it behind him. All around him, breaths catch and eyes widen as he reaches for the buttons keeping his vest shut.

The drums pick up and he rips the vest right off, buttons clattering to the floor, his exposed torso gleaming under the lights.

At the front of the crowd, just below him, he catches a glimpse of olive eyes, smoldering in their sockets, watching the charm swing with every fluid wave of his hips. He smiles, a coy little twitch, and makes sure to tug on it a little when he drags his hands down his body.

The music nears its end, and Iwaizumi slides down inch by inch until he’s on his knees, legs parted just so, hands linked high above his head, crossed at the wrists.

He takes a deep breath, smells sweat and alcohol, stale perfume and money, lets them take their fill of him, kneeling there, exposed for their fantasies. He knows how he looks, knows what it does for his audience. He opens his eyes and now there are wads and rolls of it being held up, waved at him like some offering.

He moves slowly, a deceptive meekness in his movements as he crawls close to the edge and lets them stuff their bills in his stockings, in his underwear, one daring hand even cupping a handful of his ass before leaving behind a generous tip.

By the time he gets to Ushijima he’s holding up a stack of bills, crisp and pristine, like they’ve just been freshly-minted. How romantic.

Iwaizumi reaches out, but instead of taking the money, he grabs Ushijima by the necktie, pulling him in easily. Ushijima smells like whiskey and expensive perfume, fits like a loaded gun in Iwaizumi’s hand. He’s never wielded a weapon before, but he thinks the feel of it might just be exactly this: the dull rush of having so much power right at your fingertips. Ushijima Wakatoshi may not be a gun, but as the heir to the third largest conglomerate in Japan, he can damn well end someone’s life just as effectively. And here he is, just letting Iwaizumi drag him by a strip of silk.

Now _this_. This feeling is what he lives for.

He gives Ushijima a quick kiss just to make up for the insolence. Ushijima doesn’t like playing props to his shows, but he always wrecks him so well after blatant disobedience. He takes the cash and stands back up to give the rest of his audience one last wink, blows a kiss to the one who sneaked a ten thousand-yen bill into his boot, and collects his clothes, swinging them over his shoulder as he walks away, steps measured out to give his hips the right amount of sway.

He gasps in relief once he’s back in the privacy of his own room, carefully plucking every bill from his costume and tossing his loot onto his dresser to sort later. He throws the blazer and vest aside, reaching down to remove the charm—

A knock. Then, a soft, endearingly timid _Iwaizumi-san?_.

Iwaizumi perks up in surprise. He takes a quick peek at his phone. There’s a message from Watari, informing him of Kindaichi’s arrival just barely a minute ago. A quick glance at his paycheck balance indicated an increase made around the same time. Oh. _Oh._

Nowadays he seldom feels giddy at the prospect of getting laid, but now he can’t help the anticipation bubbling up in his gut. Hurriedly, he spritzes on a bit of cologne, checking himself over to make sure he’s still presentable.

“Come in.” he calls, and lo and behold, Kindaichi ambles into the room, cigarette tucked between his lips, eyes predictably going wide as saucers at his state of undress. The music spills in after him, but quickly filters out when he shuts the door behind him.

“Kindaichi.” Iwaizumi scolds, leaning back against his dresser in a well-rehearsed pose, “I told you not to come on short notice.”

 

-

 

 **02 JUNE 2016**  
**00:13**

Iwaizumi knows he is desirable.

He knows this by the persistence of the people who vie for his attention each night; knows it by the cat calls and predatory gazes that follow him along the streets of Kokubuncho. He knows the power his body holds, knows it the way a surgeon knows his scalpel, an artist knows his brushes.

He wields his sex appeal like a pro, and it’s what gets men falling at his feet, offering him rolls of bills thicker around than their dicks, clothes and shoes and bags that Iwaizumi thinks are priced with way too many zeros than what can possibly be reasonable.

He knows what they want, what they’re hoping for in exchange for showering him with luxury he never asks for. Normally, sex is all it’s about, and Iwaizumi is only too happy to provide. Sex is a commodity. And it’s not like he doesn’t like it, not like he isn’t good at it.

But then there are _those_ clients.

They are few and far in between but they are there. Iwaizumi feels nothing but pity for them. Pity for the fact that they actually thought they could buy anything more than his body; that they could buy his heart; that they were desperate and lonely enough to think that Iwaizumi sees them as something more, just because he slept with them a few times.

He’s encountered them enough to know the warning signs: when they come by far too often for his liking, pillow talk that gets little too personal, text messages that extend to phone calls, and demands they have absolutely no right to make. It gets easier and easier to tell as time goes. Experience is a pretty good teacher.

When he first met Oikawa Tooru, the spoiled youngest prince of his father’s empire, with his pretty face and confident smirk, he’d thought he’d be one of the guys he’ll be sicking the bouncers on, just another man who never had to learn what _no_ meant.

But...

Iwaizumi chokes as he sinks back down on Oikawa’s cock, his large hands gripping his thighs, tight and satisfying as they push Iwaizumi down to meet the slow rise of his hips, the wet sound of Oikawa sliding in playing alongside heaving breaths and grunts.

“Such a slut, aren’t you, Iwa-chan? Just my little whore.” Oikawa growls, lip curling back as he arches up into Iwaizumi and grinds him down, splitting him open, pounding into him impossibly deep. But then he slows, stops—and Iwaizumi whines impatiently, glaring down at his stupid, smug face. “Say it.”

“I’d suck your cock for twenty thousand yen and let you fuck me for double.” Iwaizumi hisses, digging his nails into Oikawa’s skin, trying to roll his ass back or rub his aching cock against Oikawa’s abdomen, needy for his second orgasm of the night. “Now will you _please_ fuck me properly?”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, hips snapping up hard enough to nearly topple him over. “Knew I should’ve brought the gag.” he mutters.

Iwaizumi smirks, feeling the burn in his thighs when Oikawa finally starts fucking him in earnest. “You like my voice too much for that.”

He smirks, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he uses his grip to flip them over, still balls-deep inside Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi doesn’t even have time to gasp. Oikawa’s already grabbing his elbows, using him as leverage as he fucks into him hard, fast, just the way Iwaizumi likes it. He shivers with the feel of Oikawa’s hands around his arms, wrapping around so tight it feels like he can snap the limb clean in half. Each thrust hits all the right places, and all Iwaizumi can do is lie there and take it, moan and whine with every slam of Oikawa’s hips. The burn of his hole stretching for Oikawa’s cock is more intense with this angle, coupled with the sharp pinpricks when their hips smack together. He feels everything so keenly, the aftershocks trailing down to the tips of his fingers, his toes.

When Oikawa finally spills in the condom, he reaches down just to give Iwaizumi a few quick strokes, his spine jacking up at the suddenness of it, eyes clenching shut and body spasming from the sheer force of his orgasm.

Oikawa collapses against his heaving chest. Iwaizumi knows he’s going to regret being this rough later, but fuck it, sex with Oikawa is always good, too good to resist.

Oikawa’s been a regular for almost four months now, has slept with Iwaizumi more than half time times he’s visited, and yet he knows his boundaries. It’s a rare dichotomy that Iwaizumi is pleasantly surprised to find in a man like Oikawa. Why he even needs to go to a club like this when he probably has men and women lining up for his bed, Iwaizumi never bothered to know, but is thankful for all the same.

“You’re the best, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa gasps, completely breathless. Iwaizumi huffs, playfully pinching his ribs and smirking at the high-pitched squeak.

“You say that to every single person you bring to bed.”

Oikawa rolls of him, his limp cock slipping out easily. Iwaizumi winces at the sudden, empty feeling, but Oikawa’s already reaching between his legs, rough fingertips soothing his raw, gaping hole.

“Not true.” Oikawa mumbles from beside him, expertly tying his condom shut with just one hand and tossing it in the bin beside Iwaizumi’s bed. “I only ever say it to you and…” Silence. His other hand slides down to Iwaizumi’s inner thigh, one finger tapping in time with his thoughts. “That new boy. The one with silver hair?”

“Yahaba?”

Oikawa snaps his fingers, entire face lighting up. Unsurprising. Iwaizumi has always had this growing inkling that he’d be right up Oikawa’s alley. Yahaba is a pretty little thing. Delicately-built but fiery, with a kink list a kilometer wide. He’s already gaining a loyal following, and Iwaizumi has seen Oikawa’s eyes flit up and down Yahaba’s body in barely-contained interest whenever he passed him. They’d be nice together, Iwaizumi thinks. The same clever tongue and insatiable sex drive. Oikawa will have his hands full with this one.

A surprise kiss to his cheek interrupts his thoughts.

“Don’t worry. I have more than enough funds to sustain two sugar babies.”

Iwaizumi scowls, shrugging off Oikawa’s insistent affection. “I’m not your fucking sugar baby.”

“You kind of are.” Oikawa hums, kissing his way down his neck. “I’m practically responsible for at least three of the zeros in your paycheck.”

“Yeah, sure. Two of them after the decimal point.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Don’t be rude.”

“Make me.”

“You’re such a child.”

“Didn’t know you were into that.” Iwaizumi chuckles, propping his head up on the pillows to smirk at Oikawa’s pout. “Should I start calling you _daddy_ now?”

“Don’t be gross, Iwa-chan.”

“Says the person who was just licking his own cum out of my ass just thirty minutes ago.”

“You liked it.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer. Lord knows Oikawa doesn’t need his ego stroked more than it already has been. They fall back into companionable silence, Oikawa thoughtfully rubbing over the junction of his thighs and pelvis, prodding the bruises rising to the surface.

“You know all you need to do is say the word.” Oikawa murmurs. His soft lips tickle over his skin like the teasing touch of silk, but his words sting, the implications echoing in Iwaizumi’s brain. “Just say the word and I can give you so much more than this. You can move in with me in Omotesando. Or any of my other apartments. My sister can put in good word for you at any talent agency you want. Any dance school. Your age won’t be an issue. With your skill you won’t even have to be a trainee for lo—”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi croaks, a little disappointed that it had taken him so long to find his voice. “I’m not a charity case. We’ve been through this a hundred times.” he pulls away from his hold a little stiffly. “Why won’t you offer that to any of the others, if you insist on being so generous?”

Oikawa pulls him back and plants a long, contrite kiss between his shoulder blades. “Well none of them can suck dick quite as well as you do.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “You’re such a pig.”

“Okay, I deserved that.” Oikawa hums, shuffling closer to drape an arm over his lap. “But why won’t you?”

“I’ve given up on that dream a long time ago, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi whispers, stroking a hand over his arm, feeling for the familiar bumps of bone and muscle. “And what makes you think I’m not happy here?”

Even when Oikawa keeps his face neutral Iwaizumi knows he doesn’t get it. He’s been raised in a proper and affluent household, the doted-on and well-loved youngest in a family of five. He can’t possibly understand how anyone could derive genuine happiness from a life like Iwaizumi’s.

Still, he tries. Doesn’t get that disgusted, judgmental scrunch in his nose the first time Iwaizumi said it. Instead, he nods, tucks Iwaizumi closer and kisses his hip, and it’s more than enough to move Iwaizumi to bend down and meet him in a proper kiss: grateful and chaste and slow. He feels a shot of heartbreaking nostalgia. It’s been so long since he’s kissed anyone this way.

They separate with excruciating slowness. Oikawa’s looking at him like he loves him, like he’s something precious; and it makes him feel soft and warm and _safe_ , like the gentle heat of a kotatsu in winter. It’s so different from anything he’d ever felt, but it’s no less real, no less powerful, and he lets himself bask in it for a little while, just sitting there in the dim light, listening to Oikawa breathe.

“If you’re not going to accept my proposal, won’t you at least accept this?”

And Oikawa shifts, tugs one of the pillows aside to reveal a teal box, wrapped around with a thick white ribbon. It fits nicely in Oikawa’s hand as he lifts it up, brings it close to Iwaizumi’s exasperated face.

“You already know I’ll be out on a business trip next week.” Oikawa reasons, shrugging carelessly. “So I’m giving you your birthday present early.”

Iwaizumi sighs at the _Tiffany & Co._ debossed on the box. He should be used to this by now, but at some point continuing to accept gifts from Oikawa began to feel…wrong somehow, began to feel too much like taking advantage of a friend’s kindness.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop buying me expensive shit?”

“And how many times do I have to tell you,” Oikawa mimics, ever the mature one, “that it’s my money and I do what I want with it?”

Iwaizumi spares him the punch, instead bringing both hands to tug the white ribbon away. “When did you even hide this?”

“When I asked you to turn around and strip I slid it in there.”

 _Sneaky bastard,_ Iwaizumi thinks. He carefully pops off the lid to reveal a suede black box. He pulls the lid up, blinking at the sight of earrings. They’re dainty little things, the gold sculpted like leaves shining proudly even in the dim light. A small diamond is set in each earring, glittering like a pair of bright little eyes. Beside him, Oikawa moves up, brushing a thumb under Iwaizumi’s jaw.

“Shall I put it on for you?”

He nods. Angles his head to the side, and lets Oikawa unlatch his earrings, carefully replace it with the new ones. The gold feels warm, luxurious and heavy on his skin. He brings a finger up to trace the immaculately-carved shape of it, the cuts of the diamond tickling the pad of his finger.

“I still think you should stop giving me expensive shit.” Iwaizumi whispers. “But…thank you.”

Oikawa kisses the crest of his collarbone. He shivers at the intimacy of it all, but takes comfort in the fact that Oikawa _understands_ that they can’t happen, lets himself indulge the idea that someone just loves him enough to pamper him like this without expecting anything in return, as farfetched as that may seem.

“If anything happens you promise to call me.” Oikawa whispers, the heat of his breath blowing over Iwaizumi’s neck. “You still have my card, right?”

He nods, thinks of the crumpled, mint-green business card in his wallet. The one that Oikawa had slipped into his garters after their first night together. Oikawa smiles and pulls him close.

“How much more time do I have?” Oikawa’s already kissing over his neck, over bruises old and new. Iwaizumi grabs Oikawa’s shoulders, seeking purchase to grind down on Oikawa’s slowly-hardening cock, wincing as pain shoots up his spine, still too sensitive from the previous session.

“Ten minutes.” he gasps and Oikawa grabs his ass with a smirk worthy of the devil himself

“Plenty of time.”

 

-

 

 **11 JUNE 2016**  
**21:09**

By Iwaizumi’s standards, it’s still well and truly too early for this shit.

Usually they get the rowdy ones on Friday; salarymen partying away the stress of their week, dressed in sad, drunken mockeries of their office attire. They’d be pouring in at nine, coagulating into a mass of old and new faces. The unwanted touches and comments usually don’t start until ten, when enough alcohol and performers had been poured out.

Saturdays are supposed to be relatively calmer. Most of the time it’s just young adults or foreigners looking for a good time. But even then the worst of the lot usually comes in well past eleven. It’s only a few minutes after nine, Iwaizumi’s shift had barely even started, and yet he already wants this night to end.

This customer had been staring at him the second he walked in, not even bothering to hide how his gaze dips up and down his body, lingering in the large cut-outs on his outfit. This is all part and parcel of the job, of course, but something in the man’s eyes has his skin crawling unpleasantly. He tries to ignore it, but the stare follows him wherever he goes, and his only respite is when he’s invited to the private booths, the thick curtains blocking out the rest of the club.

Still, even after the third private dance he’d given, he’s still staring, and Iwaizumi knows no matter how uncomfortable this makes him he can’t exactly tell the bouncers. Not when he hasn’t physically made a move on him.

Sometime in the night Iwaizumi notices that he’d stood from his seat, moved from the bar to the side of the stage where Iwaizumi had his front to the pole, sliding down to let his skirt hike up, exposing the lace trim of his underwear. Performing with that creep sitting right there only gives him an unpleasant kind of chill, but he’s waving a rather generous wad of bills and it’ll look suspicious if he ignores him, so he crawls forward, tilts his head to expose his singlet strap, hoping that he’ll just slip it in there, maybe cop a feel, and finally leave him alone.

But he doesn’t. What he does is grab a fistful of his hair and _pull_ , the sudden sting sending Iwaizumi’s joints buckling and allowing the stranger to wrench him off the stage and onto his lap. There’s a commotion, a mouth on his neck, sucking, biting over his jugular and he screams, fist pulling back to punch the asshole square in the jaw—

And suddenly he’s on the floor, the breath knocked out of him, ass throbbing from his ungraceful landing. He looks up, and his eyes widen when he sees his assailant being held by the throat by a very familiar face.

“What’s going on here?” Mizoguchi roars, flanked on either side by Aone and Kamasaki. Aone grabs the bastard, easily manhandling him with a strong grip on the back of his shirt, but before Kamasaki can grab the other guy, Iwaizumi stands, quickly placing himself between them.

“No! He—” he sputters, putting up both hands like he’s calming a raging pet. “He saved me. He’s good.”

Kamasaki only raises an eyebrow at him, glancing back at Mizoguchi for instruction. Their boss scowls, zeroing in on Iwaizumi’s neck where the bite mark is.

“Get that taken care of.” he snaps, before turning to leave, Kamasaki and Aone following after him, dragging his assailant like he’s nothing more than a sack of rice. All around them, people watch, a little shaken, a little apprehensive, but Iwaizumi reassure them with an apologetic bow and a small smile, and the other dancers take the cue to distract their clients. Soon enough, the normal flow of the evening resumes.

Iwaizumi breathes deep, shaking off the spikes of adrenaline still pulsing in his fingertips, then turns to give his savior a proper smile.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

Kindaichi flushes red, the fire in his eyes extinguishing in a second. _Shame._ Iwaizumi thinks. _That was kinda hot._

He rotates his head and winces when the bite stings in protest, hand coming up to cover it. Kindaichi’s eyes immediately widen, reaching out, then stopping midway, as if realizing the first rule.

“Uhh…” Kindaichi starts, eyes darting everywhere but Iwaizumi. “Do you need me to…I can drive you to the hospital...?”

“Chill, man. It’s just a hickey, not a stab wound.” Iwaizumi laughs. “But before that, what brings you here so soon? Forget something?”

Some part of Iwaizumi hopes this guy will be smooth enough to say something snappy, but true to form, Kindaichi only shakes his head, scratching his still-blushed cheek.

“Not me.” Kindaichi says, and Iwaizumi blinks in confusion when Kindaichi stuffs a hand in his pocket then pulls out an earring, pinched daintily between two fingers.

“So _that’s_ where it went.” he figures he should be grateful. Oikawa usually pouted to no end whenever Iwaizumi lost any of his gifts, even if it is just half an earring.

He cups a hand beneath Kindaichi’s to take it, eyes coyly meeting his once the earring lands in his palm.

“Why didn’t you just ask any of the dancers to pass it on to me?”

“It looked valuable. I didn’t wanna risk giving it to anyone who might just pawn it off.”

Iwaizumi instantly deflates, rolling his eyes. “You can just say it was because you wanted to see me again. No need to play hard-to-get, Kindaichi.”

Kindaichi’s face explodes with red again and Iwaizumi chuckles, jerking his head back towards the back rooms.

“You wanna accompany me to the back? I’ve got stuff in my dressing room for emergencies like this.”

He turns to lead the way, confident that Kindaichi’s going to follow right behind. As expected, halfway to his dressing room, Kindaichi speaks up.

“Does this happen often?”

“Not _that_.” Iwaizumi shrugs, opening the door to his room and ushering Kindaichi inside, raunchily smirking at some of the curious dancers before slipping inside and shutting the door behind him. “But some clients get too excited and mark even when they’re not allowed to, so I’ve learned to keep things prepared.”

He makes a detour to his dresser, deposits the earring inside the Tiffany box before sauntering over to the minibar, taking a spoon from between boxes of chocolate and bottles of alcohol. He hisses at the first sting of the cold against his skin and suddenly Kindaichi’s right there, pulling the spoon from his hand.

“Can I?” Kindaichi asks, blinking those adorable brown eyes at him like a puppy. Iwaizumi covers up his smile by tilting his head to the side, exposing the bruise.

Kindaichi’s hands are huge around his neck, fingers long and slender, and it gets him thinking about how they’d feel choking him. _Will he even be into that?_ Iwaizumi wonders. It won’t hurt to try, of course, and he shivers in anticipation for all the lovely ways he can ruin this man.

He wonders if maybe this sudden fascination with virgins is something he should be adding to his kink list. Well, only one way to find out.

Kindaichi presses the head of the spoon against the bite, gently massaging it in small circles. Iwaizumi moans, rolling his head back and leaning into the hand Kindaichi cupped over his nape. He can practically _hear_ Kindaichi sweating bullets, can feel his nervousness from how the rhythm of his massage suddenly stutters. He makes a show of angling his head and opening his eyes slowly, like he’d just come down from a really satisfying high, and it works like a charm. Kindaichi has stopped moving completely, looking like he’d been struck off-balance, gaze anchored to Iwaizumi’s lips.

Experimentally, Iwaizumi’s tongue darts out to swipe slow across his bottom lip. Kindaichi swallows and he takes that as a signal to dive right in and smash their lips together.

He thrills at the fact that Kindaichi’s mouth is already open the second he starts the kiss. He crowds Kindaichi back onto the bed, parts just long enough for Kindaichi to gasp in surprise as he topples backwards and hits the mattress, and gets back to business as soon as Iwaizumi’s in position, straddling him, his knees knocking against Kindaichi’s hips.

Iwaizumi loves kisses, can probably get off on just the feeling of another tongue sliding against his. He hasn’t tried it yet but he’s in no mood to be patient now. He parts from Kindaichi with a long, suggestive suck of his tongue, giggling, hand coming up to wipe the spit from his chin.

“Do I get to call in that orgasm you owe me, baby?” Iwaizumi croons. “As thanks for the earring, this session’s on the house.”

That earring can probably pay for more than just one full night’s fee, if Iwaizumi recalls correctly. He expects Kindaichi to blush again, stutter the way he did last night, but instead Kindaichi’s eyes go wide, breath speeding up in panic.

“No I,” Kindaichi lifts himself up on his elbows, trying to crawl out from under him. “I didn’t come here for sex.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “Why not? I know you want me, Kindaichi. You don’t even hide it very well.”

“I _do_ want you.” he says, but his voice cracks oddly, like it was a struggle to get that out of his mouth. “But that doesn’t mean I should just take you.”

Iwaizumi pauses, licks his lips to cover the sparse seconds where words fail him. “Kin, I’m a stripper. I think I’m the last person you should be preaching morality to.”

“You’re a person.” Kindaichi insists, and Iwaizumi’s frozen again, thrust into waters so unfamiliar he thinks he might just drown.

He doesn’t know what to do with Kindaichi, and it’s frustrating. He’d already figured that it would happen one day, that his own ego will inflate to the point that he’d actually be offended when someone rejects his advances but he didn’t think it would be a man like this: inexperienced, awkward as hell, and far too sweet for his own good.

Iwaizumi doesn’t know why he’s not letting him go then, kicking him out of his dressing room and moving on to the next man who wanted him so they can nurse his self-esteem. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly more captivated than angry, looking down at Kindaichi like he’s some sort of Sudoku puzzle he’s itching to solve.

“That’s a damn shame.” he murmurs, tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip where he’d bitten it. “How about I make you a deal then.”

This stops him in his tracks, blinking up at Iwaizumi curiously. He plants one more kiss to Kindaichi’s lips, just to soften him up a little more.

“Here, I’m allowed to take in one person to be _my_ client. Essentially, you’re free to come by whenever you want, then I’ll entertain you. Exclusively even, if that’s what you want. In which case, if I have other clients, I’ll have to cancel for your sake.” Iwaizumi explains, idly brushing over Kindaichi’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Technically, you don’t _have_ to inform me beforehand, but I’d appreciate it. I don’t like cancelling out on clients, really. Plus, it gives me an excuse to give you my number.”

That last jab seems to completely fly past Kindaichi’s head. He’s frowning, eyes dark with suspicion. Iwaizumi didn’t think he was even capable of glaring until now.

“Why?”

Iwaizumi shrugs weakly. “Because you’re not exactly too bad on the eyes? Because you saved my ass? Because instead of pawning off my _diamond_ earring you returned it instead?” The emphasis makes Kindaichi go bug-eyed. “Also because I find you interesting, Kindaichi. And since you insist on doing this right, then I’m giving you the chance to get to know me more.”

Kindaichi is still tense beneath him, looking thoughtful.

“Just for the sake of full disclosure,” Iwaizumi interrupts, “you’re _my_ client, so the other performers aren’t allowed to service you.”

It’s the reason he never offered this to anyone else. While he’s the favorite of many of them, there are so many other boys in Seijou, more pliant, more willing, more versatile, and the clients like their variety. Plus, it only increases the chances of them getting too clingy.

He sighs, silent and thoughtful, stroking a finger around the edge of Kindaichi’s button. For someone who he’s only entertained once, Kindaichi’s getting way more than most clients, but unless he’s a good actor—which Iwaizumi highly doubts—then he’s perfectly harmless. Just a boy completely out of his element, but enticed by the whole new thrill Iwaizumi gave him a taste of last night.

And Iwaizumi will be lying if he says he isn’t just as intrigued.

“How much?” Kindaichi asks, and he immediately grimaces, like those were words he never expected to come out of his own mouth.

Iwaizumi grins cheekily. He knows his worth, knows Kindaichi will never be able to afford him, but he’s got enough pull over Mizoguchi to get him to let this one indulgence slide. Maybe. Either that or he’ll just have to suck him off to make up for lost profit.

“If you wanna get frisky, the the usual charges apply. But cuddling and kissing is nice too, and if that’s all you wanna do then I won’t charge. Promise.”

“But if you’re skipping out on your other clients to stay with me—”

Iwaizumi grabs him by the jaw, effectively snapping it shut. “I’m not living paycheck-to-paycheck, baby. Trust me, three good shifts are more than enough to sustain me for a month.”

And, of course, the fact that he has a very long list of sponsors on the side, but Kindaichi doesn’t need to know that.

Kindaichi honest-to-god looks like he’s _considering_ it. He’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to look anywhere except Iwaizumi. A real challenge, considering how close their faces are.

Finally, he breathes, whispers, “Ok.”

Iwaizumi smirks, and seals the deal with one more kiss.

 

-

 

 **03 JULY 2016**  
**05:32**

Iwaizumi coughs as he spits out another plume of smoke, throat itching around the burning sensation, watching as the view blurs behind a cloud of gray.

Kindaichi’s lighter is heavy and unfamiliar in his hands, the embossed ace of spades on its front digging into his palm. He knows how to smoke, just never really saw the point in it when alcohol is already his much beloved poison of choice, but he left his wallet at home in his haste to get away from Hanamaki and Matsukawa, and now he’s got nothing better.

He stuffs both hands in his jacket pockets, the only thing he managed to take when he stormed out. He’s probably ruining the last few cigarettes in the pack with how he burrows his hands in there with it, but fuck it, it’s not like he plans to give it back to Kindaichi.

He looks up. The sun is barely out. It’s a dreary day, the clouds scattered like torn paper over a pale sky. _How fitting._ he thinks, and takes another drag, more comfortably this time, the smoke sinking to his lungs with barely a hitch.

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable for Matsukawa and Hanamaki to be so angry at him. For the third day straight he’d broken his promise of texting when he’d arrived home after his shifts. Kokubuncho is a shady area on a good day, downright dangerous at night. Iwaizumi knows this. Matsukawa and Hanamaki know this. When he hadn’t returned any of their texts or calls, they probably thought the worst.

Their worry was always appreciated, but lately they’ve been more suffocating than anything. It probably didn’t matter to them that there is a marked difference between being a dancer for some seedy underground bar and dancing for _Seijou_ (for fuck’s sake the five bouncers in the entrance are enough to weed out the worst of the lot) and spare Oikawa, who they had met once and actually _liked_ , they probably thought every client treated him horribly, that Iwaizumi is sad and miserable and wants out and is only too stubborn and prideful to admit it.

He scoffs, smoke coming up at the exhale. Maybe it was too much to hope for that they’d warm up to Iwaizumi’s profession with time. If anything, they’re just growing less subtle with their disapproval.

He looks back at the scene he left behind: coming home to find them already there, Matsukawa hovering behind Hanamaki like some silent guardian while Hanamaki held a phone to his ear, and it was only then that Iwaizumi realized the vibrations in his pocket.

Screaming had followed, of course. Fucking hell, Iwaizumi didn’t give them spare keys to his place so they can barge in whenever they wanted, and the stress of an eight-hour shift just loosened his tongue, spitting fire as he crossed the doorway, feeling like a trapped animal in his own home.

 _What the fuck does this kind of life do for you?_ Hanamaki had shouted, voice already shot to hell after the initial flurry of insults that left them both fueled and raw, _Working nights in the most dangerous part of the city, entertaining the lowlifes of the world, and for what?_

And here his eyes softened, _Hajime if it’s money you need—_

 _And I fucking told you, I don’t fucking need your pity._ he’d spat out, with just as much venom, and if he was a lesser person he’d have chucked his passbook at Hanamaki, dragged him to see the room he always keeps locked to show him the fucking _stockroom_ of luxury items he got from his admirers, far too many than he knows what to do with. _Why can’t you get it through your goddamn heads that I actually_ enjoy _what I’m doing? Huh? Too much to handle that I get off on being watched? That your best friend likes spreading his legs for the highest bidder?_

Matsukawa had slapped him then. Cut him right off with a palm to the cheek. He still hadn’t said anything, but his expression had shifted, and it only took Iwaizumi a glimpse to recognize what he saw.

Disappointment.

 _If you don’t fucking like it then leave._ he’d hissed, holding back tears as he shoved his arms through his jacket, flinching at the touch of Hanamaki’s hand. _If you think I’m so disgusting and fucked up beyond belief then you can leave your keys to my place and we can all forget you even knew me._

And he’d walked out. Walked out because he doesn’t think he can bear seeing Hanamaki and Matsukawa walk through his apartment door and leave him the way his parents did. They were really all he had left. If he was going to lose them too then he’d rather not be there to witness it.

He checks his phone. _5:40_ it says. There are missed calls from Hanamaki and Matsukawa but they stopped thirty minutes ago. There are texts too, but he doesn’t bother to read them, immediately backing up when his phone automatically opens up his message log with Hanamaki.

There’s a green button next to Matsukawa’s name too, highlighted to indicate a couple of unread messages, but that’s not what catches his attention. Below his name is Kindaichi’s, and as if the irritation of his ruined morning wasn’t enough, the universe just has to remind him that Kindaichi hadn’t texted at all yesterday.

The last message in the log is the photo he sent; a selfie of him on the bed after their session last Friday, pretend-smoking one of Kindaichi’s cigarettes. Usually Kindaichi’s replies come seconds after he sends a message. At worst, minutes. And almost everyday he’d send _goodmorning_ texts, or _goodnight_ ones, sometimes with selfies (perfectly innocent ones, sadly) but for the past day, Kindaichi’s side of the chat has remained strangely silent. Not a fucking peep.

He shakes his head, shoving his phone back in his pocket. Fuck, when did _he_ start being the clingy one?

He puts out the cigarette against the concrete, hoping that this time he’d come home to an empty apartment, as usual.

But he comes home and there is a cup of tea on the table, still steaming. The pink Stan Smiths and the ratty red Converse highs are gone.

The hook where he’d told them to leave their keys holds nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/156444585486/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-2-all-the-empty) for chapter 2


	3. Interlude I - Kunimi Akira

**01 JULY 2016**  
**17:36**

Sometimes, Kunimi forgets who Kageyama Tobio is now.

The first thing that comes to mind isn’t the tall, model-esque business mogul with the perpetual scowl and the fiancé who can smile bright enough for the both of them. The Kageyama Tobio he knows is that awkward kid with the same scowl who stalked across the classroom to sit at the very back, wielding limbs far too long than he knew what to do with and a voice that seemed hard-wired for nothing else than to shout demands.

He’s always been well-off. It garnered him all the wrong kinds of attention in middle school: people rubbing elbows with him in the hopes that they’ll get treated to something nice, teachers pointedly looking the other way whenever he parades around with an undone tie or an untucked shirt, whispers and rumors trailing after his broad back in hoards.

Kunimi remembered not wanting to have anything to do with him, but Kageyama had taken the chair next to Kindaichi’s, and the second his best friend saw the new student struggling in study period, he leaned over and pointed a gentle finger at his mistake and before Kunimi knew it, two became three.

(and it had very nearly become two again, when Kindaichi and Kageyama had that huge falling out that caused two black eyes, three days of suspension, and a near-lawsuit, but that was all water under the bridge for them at this point)

For the most part, Kageyama is a good, albeit drifting, figure in their lives. He moved to Tokyo for high school and university but they managed to stay close, sparing a day to meet up when Kageyama came home for the holidays. After graduation, he’d come back to live in Sendai, to head the regional branch of the company in preparation for taking his final throne in their Tokyo branch. They don’t always talk. Their friendship has never been rooted in contact, or quality time, but it’s always there whenever Kunimi reaches out, solid and comforting and strong. Kunimi is always grateful, though he never really says it.

Kunimi sits under the plum tree outside their office, taking in his first breath of fresh air in four hours. It smells like an approaching storm, like ozone crackling in the air. His phone is held loosely in his hands, pinched between a thumb and forefinger as he flicks his wrist, watches it spin from the axis of his precarious grip.

It takes a few minutes, maybe, before he’s browsing his contacts, pressing _Call_ , holding his phone over his ear. The metronomic ringing calms his nerves, quiets his thoughts for one, blessed moment.

“Kunimi?” a deep voice answers at the fifth ring, lilting with concern. “Is something wrong?”

His tongue stalls on a dry _why is that the first conclusion you jump to_ , suddenly too tired for anything else but straightforwardness.

“It’s about Kindaichi.”

There’s a pause. A mild shuffle on the other end, the creak of a door, like Kageyama just got up from his seat to peek out of his office to physically check on Kindaichi. Kunimi only barely remembers the layout of Kageyama’s floor, but he knows Kageyama has a grand room all to himself while Kindaichi gets a more modest office just outside. Still rather spacious for a PA, considering that cubicles are all the other employees get.

The shuffling starts up again, this time with the squeak of Kageyama’s seat as he settles back on it. “He looks fine to me.”

“Was about to get to that, idiot.”

“Watch it. You know my father had people arrested for less, right?” Kageyama warns, though there’s none of that bite it used to carry, his fangs blunted by years of friendship. On any other occasion, Kunimi would have rolled his eyes. As it is, he can’t help but smile, unable to quite recall the last time he ever had an easy conversation.

The stray thought drags with it memories of the past week, the tension that draws tight whenever he tries to talk to Kindaichi, whenever they’re even so much as in the same room. He’s brought back to the seriousness of the moment, the relief lifting to leave him back to the throes of anxiety, his skin feeling too tight, ribs squeezing into his lungs.

Kunimi swallows, trying to piece this together in a way that doesn’t sound like anything other than friendly concern. “You know every week he keeps going to that strip club. The one you brought him to for his birthday?”

Kageyama hums flatly, and Kunimi can practically _feel_ Kageyama’s mood shift from worried to unimpressed.

“Kunimi, he’s twenty-three years old. Pretty sure that means he can do whatever he wants. Or whoever he wants for that matter.”

“It’s not that simple.” Kunimi hisses. “You _know_ it’s never that simple with him.”

Kageyama falls silent. Of course he knows. He knows how well Kindaichi can bottle everything in before he explodes in the most self-destructive way possible, tearing himself down until he’s scratching at bone, before finally allowing himself to even _consider_ that maybe it’s not him that’s the problem.

Despite everything that’s ever happened to him, Kindaichi’s still naïve, still trusting, still too much of too many good things and Kunimi never wants him to lose any more than what he already has.

Kunimi listens to Kageyama breathe into the receiver until the rhythm falters, resumes with something low and heavy and loaded.

“Kunimi.” Kageyama starts, and Kunimi can’t help but tremble at the weight of the reprimand waiting behind it. His hands are shaking. He can’t breathe properly. This isn’t how he imagined this conversation to go.

“I understand wanting to protect someone, believe me.” Kageyama says. Reassures. “But there’s a difference between protecting someone and sheltering them.”

Kunimi’s whole world seems to shrink, then. Sounds dimming to static before silence. The Kageyama in his mind’s eye morphs: a tall, model-esque business mogul with laugh lines at the corners of his lips that his scowl can’t cover up, looking right at him, gaze soft with an empathy that wasn’t at all there before.

Time has been kind to Kageyama,Kunimi thinks, and wonders, for a moment, when it’ll be his turn.

“You’ve always been jabbing him about having no other friends but us. I figured you of all people would be happy about the fact that he’s finally got someone else to talk to.”

Kunimi scuffs his shoes, the loose gravel collecting under the stylized grooves. “Kageyama, we’re talking about a stripper here.”

“Never thought I’d be the one to lecture you on the dangers of bad generalizations.”

Kunimi’s hands shake harder, trembling around the case of his phone. “That isn’t —It’s not—”

“Kunimi, I’m his friend too.” Kageyama interrupts. “I know I don’t deserve that title after what I did in middle school but trust me when I say I don’t want him to get hurt either.” his breathing trembles here, and Kunimi pictures him touching the scar on his cheek that he never bothered to get fixed, the one from where Kindaichi had pushed his face against the concrete in their final year of middle school, empowered by a year’s worth of righteous anger, “but he has to make his own decisions.”

Kunimi’s lips slip shut, thin out, work around words that refuse to come out under the glaring accusation of Kageyama’s words. Kindaichi’s been led around a short leash his whole life: his parents deciding his life path like detailed blueprints. For a decade, he watched Kindaichi break down countless times, crumble under the pressure, shake his head and mumble _you don’t understand_ to Kunimi’s insistent _you don’t have to do everything they say_.

He’d just recently managed to escape the manacles of that life, showing up in Kunimi’s apartment just a year ago with nothing but a backpack stuffed with whatever he could sneak out, the life sapped out of his eyes, mumbling _is it okay if I stay a while?_ in a voice muffled by tamped-down sobs.

“You live with him.” _I know._ “You’ve seen it.” _I have._ “He has this blissed out smile on his face a lot. When was the last time you’ve ever seen him that happy?”

... 

..

.

 _A long,_ long _, time ago._

He’s seen it. He’s noticed how the perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke in their apartment has dwindled significantly, some days they weren’t even there at all. Kindaichi glows every morning, a healthy blush on his cheeks and a smile that was more genuine than anything Kunimi had seen in years.

All that…all that because of some beautiful stranger. A beautiful stranger that Kindaichi had fallen in love with.

He wasn’t— _isn’t_ —prepared for how much it hurt to finally acknowledge that fact.

“Kunimi?” Kageyama urges, just barely pulling Kunimi back to the suffocating revelations of his new reality. “That’s not all you want to tell me is it?”

“No.” Kunimi croaks. Then frantically hurries to clarify. “I mean, yes. I mean—” Kunimi shakes his head, more to clear it than anything else. “Listen, my break’s about to end. I’m on shift ‘til 11. Thanks for hearing me out. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No, Kunimi wai—”

He hangs up, the phone clattering to his side, falling screen up. Kunimi leans back against the tree, the roughened bark digging into the back of his head. He angles his head back, leans in just that bit further, lets the mild scrape anchor him, trying to remember how to keep his breathing even.

Just above him, the first raindrop falls.

 

**-**

**02 JULY 2016**  
**00:23**

The station is practically deserted.

There’s only a student shifting her weight nervously, a salaryman who looks like it’s taking all he has to keep standing upright. Kunimi blinks slowly, listening for the familiar sound of the train chuffing across the tracks, somewhere in the silent distance.

He goes through the motions, gets off at his stop and blindly makes his way home, letting muscle memory lead him. The rain had come and go sometime during his shift, the sound of it drowned out by the thick windows and the cacophonic drone of keyboards clacking and reminders and promises to meet deadlines being passed back and forth. The ground remains wet with the last remnants of it, his leather shoes disturbing puddles he can’t see, the shallow pools deceptively limpid in the dim light.

He remembers, not too long ago where he worked an entire month on graveyard shift. Because he suddenly found himself with another mouth to feed and graveyard just paid better. He would come home to an apartment as bright as if it was the middle of the afternoon, a meal, still warm and covered up, waiting on the table. Kindaichi smiling as he asked him: _how was shift?_.

Sometimes, Kunimi came home to only the foyer lights open, Kindaichi sleeping in his room, smoke heavy in the air when Kunimi opens the door to check on him. But despite that, he never, _ever_ forgot to set out food for Kunimi. Even a note that reminded him he needed to eat, even just a little. Kunimi knew that the irregular schedule was causing him to lose weight, that living off of convenience store snacks wasn’t exactly the healthiest diet, that sometimes the mental stress of the job made him too nauseous to eat, but this: coming home to find that he’s being cared for, that someone is worried, that someone wants him _healthy_...

It had been great. It had been perfect. It had been all he wanted for the rest of his life. Shitty job be damned, so long as Kindaichi was at home waiting for him.

(He tells himself that but he knows it’s not the truth. Since their final year of high school, Kunimi had yearned for something different with Kindaichi. Something nameless and abstract and so much _more_ than what they had. He never acted on it, really, and he refuses to acknowledge it now, not since Kindaichi came to him, falling apart at the seams and trusting him to hold him together.

He can’t possibly betray Kindaichi. He can’t possibly take advantage of Kindaichi.

 _But in comes along someone who’s doing exactly that,_ his thoughts whisper, a bitter hiss in his consciousness _and everyone is just gonna let it happen._ )

He almost doesn’t notice that he’s finally in front of their door. He doesn’t recall climbing the stairs, but he feels the ache of it in his knees. His stomach grumbles in complaint. The ankles of his trousers are wet, the dampness threatening to seep into his shoes.

He slips the key into the lock. Twists. Pulls the knob down and watches the door open with its usual obnoxious creak.

The lights are off.

Nobody’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is Kageyama's interlude then we'll be back to regular programming with Kindaichi's POV
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/156787502736/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-3-interlude-kunimi) for chapter 3


	4. Interlude II - Kageyama Tobio

**06 JUNE 2016**  
**17:58**

When Terushima first pitches the idea to him, Kageyama immediately shoots him down with a dry _get back to work_.

Terushima is nothing if not persistent though, whining and following him around with, “Come on, boss, what you expect a gay guy to just fall from the sky into his waiting arms?”

(Well that was exactly how he’d met Hinata but nobody else needs to know that story)

“If you’re so interested in his non-existent sex life then why don’t _you_ proposition him?” Kageyama replies, confident that it isn’t going to happen. One, Terushima already has Misaki. Two, Kageyama will kick him out his top-floor window if he gets his hands anywhere near Kindaichi.

For one terrifying moment, Terushima looks pensive, but he shakes his head just as quick.

“Nah, I’ve yet to warm Hana up to the idea of threesomes.” he says with such grief, like it’s the greatest tragedy of his life, then brightens up immediately as he gets back on track.

“Seriously though, boss. Trust me. I learned how to ride a bike when my parents screwed off the training wheels and pushed me off an incline.”

“I don’t get the analogy.”

“I’m _saying_ ,” Terushima grabs the edge of the table, crowding into Kageyama’s space, “we gotta get him off the training wheels. Push him off the deep end. Get him laid! And _fast_.”

Kageyama knows that Kindaichi thrives on caring for other people, on being cared for in return. Living with his parents never allowed him the chance to pursue his interests, let alone meet anyone outside of school, and now he’s probably too focused on trying to help Kunimi with rent, trying to gather his bearings on the sandy foundations of his new life. Dating is the last thing on his mind right now.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s lonely. Doesn’t change the fact that he has needs that aren’t being met and it’s so obvious to Kageyama how wound tight he is. Probably compounded by the fact that he’s living with another, perfectly attractive human being who is, unfortunately, sexually off-limits by virtue of being his best friend.

(And that one time he accidentally picked up Kindaichi’s phone in a caffeine-deprived haze only to be faced with a browser with five tabs of porn titles—shit. No. Bad brain. That never happened. Hush you.)

“And what’s wrong with just introducing him to someone over coffee?” Kageyama asks, feeling a headache coming on.

Terushima rolls his eyes. “Knowing how awkward he is, we need a professional to get him to loosen up. Literally.” Kageyama winces at the vulgarity but Terushima continues on anyway, “And this isn’t about a relationship thing. We just want him to have a little fun. Blow his load on something that isn’t his right hand, y’know?”

Just then, Kindaichi steps in, folders and papers piled high in his arms and Terushima’s mouth snaps shut. The marketing director slowly backs up and out, pressing his hands together and mouthing _think about it_ to Kageyama until he’s out of the door.

Kindaichi hadn’t noticed him, what with the pile reaching as far up as his forehead (it’s a testament to how used he was to Kageyama’s office layout that he managed to navigate to his desk blind) and he’s setting papers down on his desk, sorting them in some category that he’s explaining but Kageyama isn’t listening, eyeing his frazzled face critically.

He still has blue on his teeth from the ice cream cake Moniwa brought that morning, still has the _Birthday Boy_ pin that people are required to wear when it’s their birthday on an office day (some tradition that started in the lower rungs that Kageyama never really discouraged nor encouraged). His mood seems a bit brighter today, but the shadows of fatigue still crawl at the edges of his persona. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Nothing at all like the guy who punched him in middle school and made him realize exactly how much he sucked as a human being.

Kageyama isn’t sure where that Kindaichi went, but he misses him.

“Hey.” he interrupts, and Kindaichi looks up, eyes wide. “Do you have any plans this Friday?”

 

-

 

**10 JUNE 2016**  
**23:04**

Kageyama doesn’t think it’ll work, even as he stands with his drink and his jacket and walks past the curtain. He stays behind to carefully listen past the harsh screeching of the music, tries not to think of himself as a voyeur as he hears the all-too-obvious sounds of them getting it on; the dark, seductive murmur of Hajime’s dirty talk and Kindaichi’s embarrassed but consenting sounds.

(And the praise kink is probably something he never needed to know about his best friend but here we are)

It’s quick. Hajime slinks out of the booth, looking as pristine and as made up as he did when he entered. Terushima tries to get lucky, waltzing over to follow him, but Kageyama immediately draws back the curtains, a concerned furrow to his brow as he hurries to check on Kindaichi.

He looks…fine. As lucid as one can be in the haze of a post-orgasm glow. He moves closer just to check, calling his name, and Kindaichi responds in kind, blushing for a whole ‘nother reason when he finally seems to notice Kageyama, along with all the others who file back into the booth, thumping Kindaichi’s back and ruffling his hair.

Kageyama has a hand on his wrist. His fist is clenched around something, but when Kageyama slips a thumb between his fingers to pry them open, Kindaichi only wriggles out of his grip, refusing to meet his eyes.

Terushima falls back into the booth, looking slightly ruffled, Misaki tugging him by his gauged ears. He brushes his hair back when she finally lets go, but his eyes widen in interest once he catches sight of Kindaichi, wrestling his way past everyone to sit next to him.

“Hey! So how was it?” he squawks, whacking Kindaichi over the shoulder with every word. “Damn, when I asked them to send in their best performer they really didn’t disappoint, huh?”

Kindaichi doesn’t even seem to notice him, just staying hunched over and staring at his closed fist. Terushima frowns, genuine worry marring his gaze.

“Kindaichi.” Terushima calls out, snapping his fingers for good measure. “Hope you didn’t forget the first thing I said when we got here.”

It’s a testament to the potent grip of alcohol that Kageyama has to struggle to remember what Terushima is talking about. They dragged Kindaichi into the club, Misaki and Terushima with hands on his wrists as he futilely kept his head down, his blush still visible through the pink of his ears. Terushima wolf-whistled at nearly every single worker in the club on their way in, but elbowed Kindaichi in the ribs and said _Try not to fall for ‘em, no matter how pretty they are. They’ll milk you dry before you even realize they got a hand on your dick_.

Kindaichi scowled at him them and he’s scowling at him now. Terushima rolls his eyes, putting his hands up in surrender and muttering something about _and this is the thanks I get_.

Kindaichi’s attention veers back to the item in his hand. Whatever it is, he’s holding it like it’s something precious, thumb curling in to brush over it.

For a while, he just stares. And then, a smile.

That smile soon grows familiar. Kageyama notices it early in the morning, when Kindaichi drives them both to the office, whenever his phone buzzes with a new message. The screen grows bright with a kanji Kageyama can’t quite decipher, but the sight of it was more than enough to get Kindaichi smiling so bright it almost made his eyes hurt.

He realizes soon enough that he’d seen that smile before. He’d seen it in the brief flash of mirrors whenever he and Hinata walked around Sendai on slow weekends. He’d seen it in candid paparazzi photos of the two of them together. He’d seen it on Hinata’s face whenever he woke up in the morning and found Hinata already awake, staring at him like he was the most amazing thing, staring at him like he’s wondering how he’s even real.

He’s not sure how to feel about it then, but he steals another glance and realizes how beautiful that smile looks on his face, how much it suits him, and all his protesting thoughts suddenly fall silent.

 

-

 

**01 JULY 2016**  
**21:38**

Contrary to what most of his former schoolmates may believe, Kageyama Tobio isn’t stupid.

He’s never really seen the point of history, or classic lit, or English. He was born and raised knowing he has a company waiting for him the moment his father kicks the bucket, so why bother wasting brain cells on subjects he knows he’ll never use? And it’s not like any of the teachers had the guts to fail him anyway, no matter how abysmal his test scores were.

He isn’t stupid. Not where it counts. And even though his people skills have never been the best, when you’ve been dating the personification of sunshine and happiness for three years, you pick up a few things: how to smile, how to be—gods forbid — _nice_ , how to tell when people are upset, how to detect the little cues in their habits and voices and backtrack to figure out where it went wrong.

And that’s how…that’s how it finally hit him. After knowing Kunimi and Kindaichi since middle school, it hits him _just now_ that Kunimi is in love with Kindaichi.

Kunimi had refused to answer any of his calls, and now Kageyama’s left to wrestle with his own conscience. What now?

What does he do when the happiness of one of his best friends is predicated by the misery of the other?

He opens the door to his office, not at all surprised to find Kindaichi still there, hunched behind his desk, squinting at the monitor and typing away.

The office is empty. Has been empty since 7PM. Kageyama’s never seen the point of adopting a lot of Japanese workplace norms, makes sure to send his employees home at a reasonable time, but Kindaichi has always been the exception to that. Sometimes he stays behind because he actually has work to do that he’d rather not let spill over to the next day. Sometimes he stays behind long enough to open Kageyama’s office door and stare him down until he closes his laptop, following Kindaichi out. Sometimes he just…stays. Sits there and watches the screensaver dance colors and patterns in front of him in the arbitrary light of night. Sits there looking lost and alone and just a little bit afraid and those nights Kageyama carefully approaches, presses the button to close the monitor and murmurs a soft _time to go_ as he closes a hand around his wrist, still so bony, still so thin even after all these years.

There’s no shadow on his face now. There hasn’t been any trace of it in the past month. Kindaichi is the happiest he’s ever seen him.

And for that, Kageyama really can’t help but hate himself for what he’s about to do.

“You’ve been clocking in a lot of overtime lately.”

“There’s just been a lot more work than usual.” Kindaichi comments idly. “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

Well, that’s a lie. Kageyama checks his email too. Just the cursory browse of the subjects, reading the most important ones and letting Kindaichi sort through the rest of the drivel. There’s no more than usual, but he did notice that Kindaichi’s been slow to read lately, and even marked a few to answer for later, which of course, resulted in more work on Fridays.

“Kindaichi.” Kageyama starts cautiously, stuffing his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. “I know I’m your boss now, technically, but we’re still…friends, right?”

The rapid punch of keys stop. Kindaichi looks up at him suspiciously. Kageyama stares him down anyway, even though it’s so obviously futile at this point.

Kindaichi’s face irons out then, a frustrated sigh whooshing out of him. Kageyama’s not surprised. Even Hinata tells him how painfully easy he is to read. Kindaichi turns away, fingertips pressing into the bridge of his nose.

“Kunimi told you?”

Kageyama has never really seeing the point in lying. He nods. “Not that hard for me to notice too, y’know. You’ve only been staying behind this late on a Friday.”

Kindaichi offers a mirthless snort, mindlessly running a finger across the faded keyboard. “Figures. We’ve been…fighting? I dunno. Not really, it’s just been really weird at home. I don’t know. I don’t even get why he’s so...” Kindaichi flaps his hand vaguely, like he can draw the missing words out of thin air.

Kageyama leans back against the desk. He’s never had to do this before. It was always him and Kindaichi fighting, or him and Kunimi. And the mantle of being the mediator is a lot heavier than he thought it’d be.

“He’s just worried about you. He’s allowed to be.”

Kindaichi only grunts a begrudging agreement. Kageyama’s tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. His throat is too dry. There’s so many things Kageyama wants to ask, but he knows there’s only one he needs to.

“Are you in love with him?”

It almost feels like time stops along with Kindaichi’s breath. The shock renders him still, silent. And when he finally moves again, it’s to stare at something on his desk.

There’s a picture frame on it. Just the one. Him and Kunimi in their university togas. Kindaichi’s not looking at it. Instead, he’s looking at his phone, eyes awash with something uncertain.

“I—” Kindaichi starts, then trails off, looking lost, and right then and there, Kageyama finds his answer.

“I’m not going to judge.” Kageyama says softly, resting a hand on Kindaichi’s shoulder. “As long as you’re happy. As long as I can see that this isn’t unhealthy for you or anything, I’m not going to interfere. But…don’t push Kunimi away. I may not agree with the things he said but you have to admit you understand where he’s coming from, don’t you?”

Kindaichi doesn’t reply, doesn’t even move. Kageyama won’t be surprised if Kindaichi had tuned him out at some point, but he let him have the silence. The churning confusion. The few precious seconds to internalize and map out the spiderweb he may have unconsciously gotten himself tangled into. Because he never had to acknowledge them before but he needs to now, before anything else, because the longer Kageyama lets him stay in this limbo, the harder the fall will be.

He catches the sheen of tears glaze over his eyes before they’re blinked away. Kindaichi’s lips slip shut, tighten and thin out.

“I’d like to go now.” Kindaichi croaks, voice breaking and petering out. “If that’s fine.”

Kageyama sighs, squeezes once, before letting his hand drop back down to his side. “Be careful.”

Kindaichi nods as he stands, and Kageyama knows he understands what he means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: Kindaichi POV, IwaKin negotiation and smut
> 
> might be a lil late for it bc we're scrambling for lab results this week and I predict lots of OT. Hopefully not though.
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/157099436336/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-4-interlude) for chapter 4


	5. (don’t) tell me what to do

**11 JUNE 2016**  
**08:58**

It’s a Saturday.

It’s a Saturday and usually people wake up slow and easy, wake up with small smiles on their faces as they gently pull themselves out of sleep without the aid of an alarm clock or a screaming roommate or a bucket of ice cold water. Rude awakenings are usually reserved for the weekdays. Not today, Satan. Not today.

But somewhere in an apartment in Otemachi, such is not the case.

Kindaichi wakes up groaning and grumbling because Kunimi fucking _slams_ a frying pan down on the stove and the sound of it electrocutes him right out of sleep. For someone who barely ever talks to people, Kunimi is way louder with doing stuff than he means to be, mainly because he has his earphones on at full blast when he’s doing chores.

(And on a normal Saturday Kindaichi would have been awake a solid hour ago, so he really has no grounds to be cranky.)

He curses his headache a bit more, yawns, then turns—

then sees the earring, sitting safely inside a small glass bottle his drunken ass somehow scoured up last night, and the events hit him like the vestiges of a nightmare coming back up to give one last scare.

Given, it isn’t exactly _horror_ that comes to him, but more like a tingling, bubbly feeling. It’s similar to the feeling he used to get back when he was a college student with a crush he shared first period with on Wednesdays. Except now instead of thinking of the narrow-shouldered back he sits behind in _Leadership and Strategy 101_ he thinks of a muscled chest squeezed into a leather harness, artificially red lips soft and cherry-flavored and pressed against his, a hand working his cock until he spilled cum all over those talented fingers—

 _Fuck,_ he realizes then and there, when sense finally caught up to him. _I’m so fucked._

 _Technically, not yet._ his traitorous brain supplies. He tells it to shut up.

 

-

 **11 JUNE 2016**  
**13:20**

Working as a PA for a man like Kageyama Tobio usually means he’s neck-deep in work on weekdays, clocking in at 6AM to pick up his boss— _and_ his boss’ morning coffee—and leaving only once after all the emails have been answered, all the appointments set, all the cogs in the company working in perfect, synchronous order. It also means that, other than his actual _job_ , he gets to deal with shit from “things I am pretty damn sure you can do yourself Kageyama”—

(“Kindaichi, mind handing me the fountain pen?” Kageyama announces from his table, aforementioned pen just sitting fifty centimeters beside his right hand)

—to “I’m sure this is not even in the scope of my job description I checked my contract. Twice”—

(“Hey Kindaichi, I know it’s late, but it’s our anniversary and I forgot and please I know you live close to a flower shop—”)

But he endures. Because the paycheck is well worth the hassle; because Kageyama is a benevolent enough boss (unless Hinata-san banished him to the couch the night prior); because Kageyama gave him this job when he literally had nothing but five sets of clothes and a room in Kunimi’s apartment, doing all the chores, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible to make up for not being able to contribute to rent and bills. 

(And even though Kunimi had never made him feel like a burden, Kindaichi remembers that month where he took all the night shifts just to cover both of their expenses, just so he could take Kindaichi out to shop for a few more clothes, just so he can come home with a box of cigarettes because even though he never supported the habit he knows how much it calms him, how much he relies on it to stay sane.)

He’s working to make up for it now. He’s working and getting paid enough that on top of being able to pay his share, he can actually set aside a fair amount for a rainy day. All in all, it’s a pretty good deal. Kageyama’s strict about keeping a reasonable work schedule, even for Kindaichi. He always discourages working on the weekends, but Kindaichi still takes calls from journalists or potential business partners seeking appointments, sometimes answers e-mails that he might’ve missed during the week, but all those take less than two hours on a usual Saturday, which leaves Kindaichi with far too many hours than he knows what to do with.

Usually he’d just ask Kunimi out, or join him for a movie marathon, cuddled up on the couch or on Kunimi’s bed, watching from his laptop’s speakers. Sometimes, when Kunimi has Saturday shift, he just compulsively cleans every room in the house until Kunimi gets home early enough to complain about the smell of bleach or late enough to sarcastically praise Kindaichi’s handiwork and clear lack of anything better to do with his Saturday.

Today, Kunimi’s home. Their bellies are full with fried rice and sausages. _Pink and Gray_ plays through Kunimi’s gaming laptop and his bed is warm beneath them. Kunimi has always liked his beds softer than most people, likes being swaddled and surrounded by soft things, maybe to make up for how he’s so thin, all angles and lines as sharp as his tongue.

Kindaichi tries to focus on the movie, or at least try to keep up with the barebones of it, but he keeps finding his mind wandering back to the night before, to the earring on his nightstand, to all the things Iwaizumi did to him.

He can’t help but think of how his thumb pressed onto his lips to wipe off the gloss, the way he said _baby_ and called him a _good boy_ , so soft and coy and painfully intimate. The way he kissed. The way his body felt when they were just sitting together, negotiations peppered with playful teasing. He can’t help but think of Iwaizumi in something other than the outfit he wore last night. He’s stunning in it, no doubt. Tempting and sinful and alluring in all the ways his profession calls him to be, but Kindaichi pictures him in a loose shirt, boxers, face free of makeup, something soft and easy playing in the background instead of the low, rumbling bass of club music, the violet light of pre-dawn washing over them and not the glaring purple of neon lights waving overhead.

Iwaizumi would be beautiful then too, Kindaichi thinks. He’d be beautiful no matter what.

Kindaichi wants to see him again.

His brain wanders back to the earring, and reminds him that he _can_.

The bed bounces slightly, shifts, and he looks to his right, where Kunimi is fidgeting, staring at him.

“Are you ok?”

Kindaichi swallows, tries to meet Kunimi’s eyes as best as he can. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kunimi’s gaze intensifies, lips twisting in that way it does when Kunimi knows he’s lying and is giving him another chance to either tell the truth or a more convincing lie.

“I’m fine. Really.” he insists. Kunimi still doesn’t stop staring at him though, so he relents. “Tired, I guess. It was pretty wild.”

That seems to be good enough. The sharp glint in Kunimi’s eyes dissolves away with an exasperated eyeroll.

“That might be an understatement. You came home last night with your coat on inside-out.”

Maybe drinking himself blind after Iwaizumi left wasn’t the wisest idea at the time. Well, at least Moniwa was aware enough to cut him off and get him a taxi.

“You never did get to tell me how it went.” Kunimi continues, reaching out to pause the movie. Kindaichi hums in confusion.

“What happened last night? You were blubbering nonsense the moment you stepped through the door.”

“Like what?”

Kunimi shrugs. “I don’t remember. It was that weird. My brain figured it was best to wipe my memories of it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Kunimi replies flippantly, already pressing play. Kindaichi chews the inside of his cheek for a while, thinking. A little later, he finally speaks up again.

“I have somewhere I need to be tonight, might be back late.”

And here, Kunimi turns to him, eyes the widest he’d ever seen them.

Kindaichi subtly inches back. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because in all the ten months we’ve been housemates you have never once gone out on a Saturday night.” Kunimi explains slowly, his tone oscillating in that way when he’s explaining something he feels should be common knowledge already. “Mainly because you have no one else to hang out with?”

Kindaichi shrugs, gaze shifting. “I met someone last night.”

Kunimi’s eyebrow lifts impatiently, hand gesturing quickly for him to continue.

“He accidentally dropped something and left before I could give it back.”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Seems like a lot of hassle you’re going through for someone you just met.” he mutters, readjusting to sit up so he can stare Kindaichi down better. “Where are you meeting him?”

“I’m gonna go back to the club we went to last night. He…uh…he works there.”

Realization clicks in Kunimi’s eyes and it’s exactly as Kindaichi expected. Kunimi’s face immediately crumples, sinking down to meet his palm.

“Kindaichi.” he starts, tone already reprimanding. “We’re talking about a stripper aren’t we?”

Kindaichi’s cheeks burn red, indignation threatening to boil over in the pit of his stomach. He stands, stumbles off the bed, not even wanting to be near Kunimi with how angry he feels.

_Don’t call him that._

“Oh. God.” Kunimi’s fingers circle over his temples. “I knew it. I knew that place would eat you alive.”

“It’s not a big deal, I just wanna return his earring!”

“Kindaichi are you listening to yourself? you’re gonna return an earring to a stripper. What makes you think he even noticed he lost it?”

“It looks valuable. Plus it’s an earring! Pretty sure if it’s a pair you’d notice one missing.”

“I highly doubt a stripper can carry anything more expensive than fake gold.” Kunimi shot back, rivalling the sudden increase of his tone. “Don’t do it, Kindaichi, for all you know this is a trick.”

“Why the fuck are you even telling me what to do?” Kindaichi snaps, and, without thinking, “Bit hypocritical, since you always went on about how my parents were awful for always doing it.”

The silence slams into him like a freight train, heavy and terrifying and angry. It’s nothing he ever experienced before. Not with Kunimi. The look on his face says as much. Kunimi has never been one to show emotion, but his eyes are so transparent, so large and soulful that they show everything even when he tries to hide it.

Kindaichi recognizes the hurt frosting over in those brown eyes, but before Kindaichi can even apologize, Kunimi turns away, pressing the spacebar with a telling _snap_ and amping up the volume.

“Alright.” Kunimi mutters darkly. “Have fun I guess.”

Kindaichi’s mouth clicks shut. He closes the door just a little harder than he usually does, purely out of spite.

He doesn’t talk to Kunimi for the rest of the day.

 

-

**13 JUNE 2016**  
**06:21**

Kindaichi eases up on the gas at the sight of oncoming traffic, leaning back against his seat with a sigh. In the passenger seat, Kageyama’s still half-dead, sipping on his coffee to aid his revival.

Yesterday was already hellish enough as it was, filled with thoughts of _what the fuck did I get myself into now?_ and here he is, Monday morning, his brain still flooded with thoughts of the same tune.

He was just supposed to return the earring, not follow him to his dressing room only to come out thirty minutes later with a neck tender with hickeys and an agreement to be Iwaizumi’s VIP client.

He recalls the hospital trip he took yesterday, with the mouth swabs and urine analysis and blood samples, pulling his pants down while a doctor squinted at his crotch. It was part of the agreement, Iwaizumi said, after the heat had died down and they’d gone into more details about the fine print. Kindaichi understands the importance of keeping the workers STI-free. Iwaizumi himself gets tested every two months, had flashed him his most recent medical records, told him to get the same tests done ASAP and submit the papers to their secretary.

It was a bit of a scary thing, even though he knows he’s never had a partner, but still, that’s not the only way someone can get infected. He shudders at the news articles of establishments reusing stuff like needles, sick assholes hiding infected blades under propaganda stickers. Still, the tests came out clean. 100%. And he had hurried to send them in, the secretary smiling at him with his wide, grey eyes and letting him sign something that basically verified him Iwaizumi’s VIP client, listing all the privileges and rules and special arrangements.

He can’t even deny that the thought excites him, more than just a little bit. It’s not even about the money for Iwaizumi either, considering he’s not paying any extra fees to get such special treatment. Was the earring that precious, maybe? He _did_ say it had a diamond…

A honk from behind jerks him back into alertness, and he starts driving, the smile he didn’t even realize he had on slipping off his face. He can feel the sudden weight of Kageyama’s stare from beside him, but he tries to pretend he doesn’t.

Silence is normal during their morning drives. Kageyama isn’t too fond of music or conversation so early in the morning, so they just drive with nothing but the ambient noise of the car’s machinations on their way to the office. This silence is a little different though, but one Kindaichi still knows well. It’s usually the silence that comes before Kageyama says something awe-inspiringly brilliant or unbelievably stupid. There’s no in-between.

So, he waits. Braces his feet so he doesn’t slam on anything and cause an accide—

“You might wanna cover up those hickeys a little better or Terushima won’t let you hear the end of it.”

One day, Kindaichi’s going to look back on this moment and pat himself on the back for his driving skills. In hindsight, it was quite impressive how quickly he managed to make a sharp turn into an alleyway to stop the car, pull the handbrake and turn to directly give his boss the full effect of his incredulous expression. In the moment, however, it just feels like he just had a seizure. And a heart attack. And an asthma attack. All at once.

Kageyama only blinks at him, his coffee still held securely in his hand despite the jostling. Kindaichi tilts the rearview mirror and tugs his collar aside.

“ _Shit_.” is all his brain can come up with at the time. In his rush to get out earlier, he didn’t even check if the hickeys were still there or not.

“You gonna tell me where those are from or do you really trust my imagination on this one?”

Kindaichi sighs, sinking forward until his forehead hits the steering wheel. “You remember last Friday?”

“Don’t lie, those look too fresh to be from then. And you didn’t have that much when we came back in the booth.”

“I didn’t say they were from Friday,” Kindaichi hisses. “I was gonna ask if you remember the…the guy you paid to…”

“Yeah,” Kageyama cuts him off, albeit rudely. “And?”

“I…” he straightens up, glancing at Kageyama the barest bit. “I went back to see him last Saturday.”

Unexpectedly, Kageyama’s eyebrow only jerks up. There’s only the lightest sign of surprise in his eyes, before it dims back to sleepy boredom.

“That good, huh?”

“It’s not—” Kindaichi swallows with difficulty, squeezing around the wheel, “like that”

Kageyama’s eyebrow comes up again as he sips his coffee, looking like he couldn’t be any less interested and Kindaichi’s just making this more uncomfortable than it really is.

“I returned an earring. He dropped it in the booth.”

“Mhm.” Kageyama hums, wholly unimpressed. “And I bet he mauled your neck as thanks?”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Kageyama pauses, cup lowering as he stares at Kindaichi hard. “Did he…”

“No.” Kindaichi responds firmly. Kageyama had let the implication hang in the air, but his tone leaves an unpleasant churn in Kindaichi’s stomach. “It was consensual. He didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”

To be perfectly honest about it, if his aching cock and the searing itch beneath his skin was any indicator at the time, Iwaizumi didn’t do nearly enough.

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t say anything else because he can’t even deal with these new feelings when they’re bottled up inside him, let alone when they’re breathed out into the open air. He keeps his eyes on the dashboard monitor as he backs up out of the alley and into the main road. In a rare demonstration of tact, Kageyama doesn’t say anything more either.

He goes on with his day in a somber mood, not even lifting after the three cigarettes he’d binged-smoked before walking into the office, already double than what he usually takes. He keeps his collar as high as possible, but there are marks that extend up to his jaw, but not even Terushima dares to point it out, even though Kindaichi’s seen his gaze dart to it when he asked about the update on his cash forms.

His sullen mood lasts well until after work. At the end of the day, Kageyama stood awkwardly at the door, waiting for him to follow, but went on ahead with a sigh when Kindaichi stubbornly refused to acknowledge his presence.

He goes home alone, eats a microwave meal at a convenience store, smokes one more stick and buys three more packets because he can already tell it’s gonna be a rough week, trudges up the stairs to their apartment and completely bypasses Kunimi, in the living room. Neither of them bother to say _I’m home_ or _Welcome home_. Neither of them have bothered to say anything since Saturday.

He goes by his nightly routine while expertly avoiding Kunimi (it’s a little eerie how good he is at it, considering he’d lived almost half his life always seeking out Kunimi’s comforting presence) and Kunimi does the same. He doesn’t even knock on Kindaichi’s door for dinner, like usual, letting him brood in silence until the lights in the hallway go out.

His vent hums overhead. The room smells earthy and calming. Fragrant. A lot of people hate the smell of cigarette smoke but it has always kept Kindaichi calm, has always muted the frazzled nerves that threaten to drive him over the edge on the daily. He breathes in the heat like it can burn and smoke out all the demons he keeps inside him.

For a few precious minutes at least, it does. And some days, those few precious minutes are all he needs.

He puts out the cigarette on the tray at his nightstand, scowling when he counts and realizes exactly how many he’s burned through already.

The past hour had been wasted just staring at the ceiling, a lit cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other, open at Iwaizumi’s contact information. He’d punched his numbers in during the lazy aftermath, Kindaichi’s thumb swiping over the dip of his waist. He’s stared at the numbers so hard since then he’s not surprised if he’s unconsciously memorized them.

He swallows past the heat in his mouth, licks his lips, watches his thumb move as if he’s not even in control of it. He types out a message painfully slowly, and sends it.

 **Sent: 21:22, Jun 13**  
_Can I come see you this Friday?_

It hits him just a little later (after spending the past twenty minutes stewing in self-pity and slight fear and a lot of nervousness) that maybe Iwaizumi’s still at shift. He curses the realization, checks the clock and curses at the 21:45 blinking at him like some taunt. Iwaizumi gets off work at 1AM. If he’s unbooked.

He sighs, shoves his phone under his pillow and tries to go to sleep.

 

-

 

 **14 JUNE 2016**  
**02:08**

Something beeps in the silence of his room and he wakes with a start.

Shit. He actually _had_ fallen asleep. Kindaichi rubs his hands over his face, groaning. Nicotine is still heavy in his mouth, saliva coagulated and sticky at the edges of his lips. Every swallow makes him want to vomit. He blindly gropes for the water bottle he keeps beside his bed, drinks until the bitter-sour taste goes away, brain clearing up with every gulp. He caps the bottle with a gasp of relief, setting it back on the table.

It takes a while for him to realize what woke him in the first place.

In his rush to get to his phone he almost throws his pillow across the room, but it lands safely somewhere behind him. He doesn’t really care, too busy tapping his unlock key onto the screen.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:08, Jun 14**  
_Of course._

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:08, Jun 14**  
_Sorry late reply. Just got off work._

Kindaichi almost judges himself for how quickly his heart is pounding. God, when was the last time he was ever this excited for receiving a text message?

Quickly, he drafts up a reply, checks it twice for any typos before sending it.

 **Sent: 02:10, Jun 14**  
_Alright. Thank you._

He lies there, curled up on his side and pillowless, teeth digging into his bottom lip nervously as both hands clutched his phone.

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:10, Jun 14**  
_Did I wake you? Sorry._

 **Sent: 02:10, Jun 14**  
_No. I was just having a hard time sleeping._

He hopes that, at least via text, he can lie more convincingly than he can in real life. Shit what if Iwaizumi picks up on it anyway? Would he think it was pathetic?

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_Tea always helps? Chamomile if you have it. Or warm milk._

God. God. God. God. He’s whipped. Kindaichi is so whipped it’s not even funny anymore. He pictures the concerned furrow between Iwaizumi’s sculpted brows, the way his lips pucker a little when he’s cooing at Kindaichi. His stomach flutters, little tingles tickle the tips of his fingers as he types up another reply.

 **Sent: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_I’ll check the kitchen. Thank you for the advice, Iwaizumi-san._

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_Alright. Good luck with that._

 **From: Iwaizumi-san**  
**Received: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_I’ll go ahead. It’s been a long shift._

The pang of disappointment is strong, but he understands. He’s grateful Iwaizumi even took the time to reply to his message at all, given how tired he must be right now.

 **Sent: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_Of course!_

 **Sent: 02:11, Jun 14**  
_Goodnight, Iwaizumi-san._

Before he can put away his phone, it beeps once more, and he lifts it up to see that Iwaizumi had sent an image. Heart pounding, he opens it, and it’s a photo of Iwaizumi, hugging a large Godzilla plush to his chest. He looks nothing like the dolled-up temptation Kindaichi remembers. His face is a little haggard, a little unkempt. He’s bare-faced too, all the moles and blemishes visible on his face. His eyes are puffy, dark circles ringing the bottom.

He looks human.

He looks beautiful.

 _Good night, Kindaichi_ , the caption says.

Kindaichi considers it for a moment. Takes a selfie and sends it out before he can be too embarrassed about his awkward smile, the way the lighting makes him look washed out and creepy.

He puts his phone down and falls asleep with a stupid smile on his face, pillow hugged to his chest.

 

-

 

 **17 JUNE 2016**  
**21:58**

“You’re here early.”

Kindaichi backtracks immediately, hand reaching back for the doorknob. “I can come back—”

“Don’t be silly.” Iwaizumi cuts off, his fingers already winding around his wrist, tugging him along with a honey-sweet smile. “I expected you in closer to eleven, like last time, but it’s fine.”

“Would it be better if I came in at eleven?” Kindaichi asks carefully, sitting on the edge of the bed where Iwaizumi leads him. He has denim shorts on, a shirt with the hem just barely touching where the shorts begin, flashing golden skin whenever he so much as moved.

“It’d give me more time to dance. Reel in a few rolls. But I had a pretty good week. I can afford to rest for now.” Iwaizumi shrugs, hands sliding over Kindaichi’s shoulders and massaging. He did this too, the first time they met. Kindaichi wonders if it’s some sort of procedure.

“You like dancing though.” Kindaichi says, lifting his hands when Iwaizumi leads them up, slipping the barest centimeters of his fingers under the shirt. “I saw you dance last time, before that guy…”

The memory makes his blood boil. His jaw clenches. Quickly, he shakes off the memory, leaning his forehead against the plush fabric of Iwaizumi’s shirt, breathing in Iwaizumi’s familiar scent, finishes his train of thought. “You looked like you enjoyed dancing.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a dancer.” Iwaizumi says, playfully running his fingers across Kindaichi’s hair. His hands are small but heavy, uncoordinated, a little rough when he tugs his hair. “Not _here_ exactly, but it’s close enough I guess. Parents didn’t support it though. They wanted a doctor.”

Kindaichi nods, stiffens a little when he feels Iwaizumi’s body curl, when he feels lips press over the top of his head.

“I understand.” he croaks. Clears his throat. “My parents were the same. Difference is I actually listened.”

Iwaizumi’s smile shifts against his scalp, but Kindaichi can’t see, can’t figure out where this atmosphere is taking them. “And look at you now, upstanding employee, probably live on your own, somewhere nice and comfy.”

“I’m not happy though.” Kindaichi says, a little too fast and a little too personal, and realizes that this is the first time he’s ever said it aloud. “Don’t think I’ve ever really been.”

He shyly shifts, backing up to look Iwaizumi in the eye.

“I’m working on that though. At least I hope that’s where I’m headed.”

Iwaizumi huffs, an entirely neutral sound, reaching down to lay his hands over Kindaichi’s. He flushes when he intertwines their fingers, peels them from his skin to press their palms flat.

“That’s the thing about life.” Iwaizumi murmurs, a faraway, dreamy look in his eyes. “You never really know _where_ you’re headed.”

Kindaichi wants to say something, wants to ask, maybe, if Iwaizumi ever feels lost. If he feels lost right now, right here, with him.

But the moment’s gone. Iwaizumi blinks and suddenly his gaze is dark. Predatory. Suddenly his knees are against Kindaichi’s hips and his slighter weight is settled on his thighs.

“Now enough with the philosophy class.” he purrs, voice modulated deeper, rumbling in time with the sparks shooting up Kindaichi’s spine.

When Iwaizumi kisses him, it’s nothing like the first time. Back then it was about testing boundaries, it was about hesitation and making sure Kindaichi knew he had an exit. Now it’s feral, it’s rough and dominating and too much teeth than Kindaichi even knew kisses involved. He tries to keep up but Iwaizumi pushes until they’re horizontal. The bed bounces under their combined weights and Kindaichi reaches up to pull Iwaizumi in, wanting him close.

All thoughts of keeping this meeting innocent fly out of his mind, replaced with the haze of Iwaizumi all around him. His scent. The weight of him. The heat of his body. Iwaizumi still tastes like cherries, the smell of the fruit mixing nicely with the forest tones of his perfume. He feels Iwaizumi’s legs part wider, their cocks rubbing together beneath fabric, the swelling hardness grinding against his.

He wants him. Good god, he wants him and he’s right here, practically offering himself to Kindaichi.

“You have to tell me what you want.” Iwaizumi moans, parting from him with a soft suck. “You always have to tell me if you want me to stop. Keep going. Anything.”

“You too.” Kindaichi gasps, wincing at the tenderness of his tongue. “I want it to be good for you too.”

Iwaizumi’s smile shifts. Anticipation. Hunger. But there’s that undertone of something lifeless, something Kindaichi’s really starting to hate because of how it makes Iwaizumi look like he doesn’t believe he deserves to be treated with consideration, with kindness.

Like he doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved.

So Kindaichi kisses him.

It’s so foreign, how Kindaichi’s neck strains, stretches where he has it tilted up and extended. Iwaizumi’s leaning back, shock keeping him still and pliant, lips soft under Kindaichi’s. He flips them over, the cotton sheets billowing around the lines of Iwaizumi’s body. Iwaizumi’s relaxing into him slowly, letting him take control, moaning in his mouth, fingers sweeping over his shoulders and twining into his hair.

Kindaichi pulls back to run his teeth over the delicate curve of his jugular. Iwaizumi gasps, colored lips parting for that thrilled breath. He tastes a little artificial, a lot like makeup and money and smoke. He scrapes his teeth over the skin, like he can dig his way down and find the real Iwaizumi beneath the surface of illusions.

“I want—” Kindaichi kisses the sharp peaks of his collarbones, “I want to make you feel good.” he pleads, sliding down on Iwaizumi’s body, slipping thumbs under the hem of his shirt and pushing it up, mouth going dry at the shadows slithering into the defined lines of his abs, the jewel on his bellybutton sparkling in the dim light.

“Just you.” Kindaichi whispers, bending down and pressing a kiss right under the charm, feeling Iwaizumi shudder and tense beneath him. “Can I?”

Iwaizumi looks…he looks strangely out of breath, staring at Kindaichi like he just spoke another language. He licks his lips, spit glossing the pink swell of it.

“Okay.” Iwaizumi says, barely a whisper. “Okay.”

“Can you call me…” he trails off. Swallows. “the way you did...the last time?”

Iwaizumi nods, gaze void of judgement. He’s smiling. Dimples sinking into the corners of his lips as his hands smooth over his face, his jaw. He pulls him close. Tugs him flush against his body and plucks away the buttons of his polo.

“Baby.” Iwaizumi purrs, the flutter of his voice waking something hot in Kindaichi’s gut. “My good boy.”

Kindaichi groans. His cock twitches in his pants, embarrassingly eager, already so close, just from the timbre of Iwaizumi’s voice, from the little lilt where he cracked off into a moan. Kindaichi already has a hand between his legs and he’s grinding himself down on his palm, breaths escaping in hoarse little gasps.

“C’mon, baby. Get that shirt off. Help me out.” Iwaizumi pants. Kindaichi sits up, tugs back the polo and his undershirt up with it. When his vision returns, Iwaizumi’s getting his shorts off. He helps by ripping them away— _god, he’s not wearing any underwear_ —as soon as he gets the buttons popped and the zip undone. Iwaizumi on that bed is a piece of fucking art, cock leaking and hard, wrists laid atop his head, head tilted up and back, exposing the tempting lines of his neck, his collar. The fact that he still has his shirt on—that black, thick fabric with _Yours_ printed at the front—riding up so high he can see the shade of his ribs, only makes this so much more arousing.

“Lube is on the nightstand, baby boy.” Iwaizumi whispers, knee sliding up his thigh. “Be a sweetheart and go get it.”

Kindaichi scrambles, like he’s hard-wired to accomplish Iwaizumi’s every order as soon as he possibly can. There’s a bowl on the nightstand, filled to overflowing with little packets of different colors. Kindaichi tries not to blush, feeling around for the ones that didn’t have a disc-shaped imprint. He takes three, just in case, and hurries back to Iwaizumi, who smiles, pulls him back in with a foot on his thigh and a satisfied murmur of _good boy_.

“Do you know what this is for?”

Kindaichi stalls his answer. He’d used it before, on himself. He’d used it to ease the friction, drizzling it over his cock before he jacked it. Whenever he jerks off he always likes it wet, likes it messy and slippery and fast.

Iwaizumi chuckles, a sound entirely too playful and innocent for their current setting, but it causes his cock to twitch anyway. God, he’s depraved.

“I want your fingers in me.” Iwaizumi whispers, peeking at him from beneath sparse lashes, opening his legs wider, as if in invitation. “Get me wet, baby.”

Kindaichi swallows, face too hot he thinks he’ll pass out. Iwaizumi has his hands hooked under his knees, pulled up so far he’s practically folded in half. Instinctively (and from the sheer number of gay porn he’s watched just to satisfy himself) Kindaichi knows what to do. He knows what Iwaizumi wants.

His first attempt at opening the lube packet ends with it falling between his shaking fingers. He picks it up, keeping his head low in embarrassment, and succeeds in tearing a slit large enough to get some of it on a finger. He can’t quite control his finer motor functions, squeezing too much, getting more than what he probably needs, some dripping on the bed. He remembers to warm it up, rubs the gel around with his thumb before pressing the tip of his middle finger onto Iwaizumi’s pucker, feeling it flutter beneath the pad of his finger. He swallows, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead.

“Go on.” Iwaizumi encourages, pushing back, and Kindaichi takes a breath for good luck before plunging right in.

One anyone else, he probably would’ve been too fast, suddenly two joints deep at the first push, but Iwaizumi only closes his eyes, breath catching.

“It’s...” Kindaichi mutters absently, fascinated at the soft yield of his walls, the easy stretch.

“Not always like this. Sometimes I...” Iwaizumi winces in response to Kindaichi curling his finger, “get myself ready before work.”

“Did you do this too? By yourself?”

Iwaizumi grins, wide and boyish. “Fuck yeah. Used a toy today though. Didn’t feel like pulling a muscle.”

Kindaichi blinks, his exploration slowing to a stop. “Toys?”

Iwaizumi’s face suddenly goes slack, stunned, mouth falling open. Then, it’s replaced by a sinister grin, all teeth and crescent eyes.

“Oh, Kin. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

He doesn’t have time to think on it further, because Iwaizumi’s suddenly sitting up, kissing him, reaching between his legs to coax another of Kindaichi’s fingers. It’s a little dry, a tighter fit, but he sinks in right alongside the other. _A little to the left, Kin. Keep doing that._ Iwaizumi whispers as he sinks back down, a pillow suddenly positioned beneath his hips.

Ah. He knows about the prostate, knows that some men can come from having it rubbed, touched, but he’s never tried stimulating himself with it. Doesn’t know if it actually _works_ or if the people in porn just play it up like they always do, but Iwaizumi suddenly whines, body stiffening like he’s been electrocuted, tightening around his fingers, and the revelation is like a switch flicking in his brain.

“There.” Iwaizumi grunts, reaching down to circle his free wrist in encouragement. “Right there. Again.”

He does just that. Keeps his wrist steady as his two fingers press up against the aforementioned spot. Iwaizumi rocks back against him, balls bouncing on the heel of his palm.

“Faster, Kindaichi. _Harder_.”

Kindaichi looks around, reaches back for something nearly lost in the folds of the covers.

“Can I?” Kindaichi trails off, wordlessly lifting the extra lube packet he brought, and when Iwaizumi nods he rips it with his teeth and spills it onto his palm, angles it so that it slides right down his fingers, into Iwaizumi’s hole, spreading over his cleft and his inner thighs like a perfect mess. The next thrust is too slick, but it helps Kindaichi drive in faster.

Iwaizumi’s back jacks up as he chokes on a scream, angle so sharp it’s almost scary. He’s so wet. He’s so wet and slick and it’s so filthy how his hips are bucking back against Kindaichi’s fingers.

In a moment of boldness, he pulls apart his fingers, just an experimental stretch. Iwaizumi gasps, hips kicking in response. His eyes and mouth are blown wide in surprise, head thrown back, fingers and heels digging into the bed. Kindaichi can feel the squeeze of him. The opposing force. He presses his fingers back together but Iwaizumi _whines_ , snaps his head side to side in a frantic _no_.

“Does that hurt, Iwaizumi-san?” Kindaichi babbles, keeping his fingers tight together, ready to pull out.

“No.” Iwaizumi sobs, shaking his head. “No, baby, keep going. Gimme another. Yes.”

Kindaichi does just that, pulls out—tides Iwaizumi over with a soft shush and reassuring kisses—smears more lube over his fingers, spilling some on is hand, before he plunges right back in, three at a time, swallowing Iwaizumi’s delicious sounds, the high keening noise bordering on something animalistic, something feral.

The squelch of his entry sounds dirty, sounds disgusting and wrong, but the way Iwaizumi moves under him is a spiritual experience. He’s rolling his hips, barely even waiting for Kindaichi to move, wanting him deeper. He watches his fingers sink into Iwaizumi, right at the knuckles, pulls them back until the last joint then thrusts back in, drowning in the completely uninhibited moan Iwaizumi lets out whenever he purposefully rubs _that_ spot. The one that intensifies the blush on his face. The one that pushes him father from the edge of sanity.

The smell of sweat and musk gets heavier in the room, but Kindaichi loves it, leans in close just to bury his face in Iwaizumi’s neck, breathe it from the source. Iwaizumi whimpers, arches his back and lifts his hips until his cock is flush against Kindaichi’s stomach, clutching his around his neck like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Kin,” Iwaizumi snarls, so broken, so desperate, still squirming on his fingers, “Kin, baby, touch me, fuck, touch me _please_.”

He forces a hand between them, already slippery from the excess lube, careful not to catch on the navel piercing as he fists Iwaizumi’s cock. Iwaizumi trembles, tightens up so much Kindaichi has to wince, but he pumps his cock. _This_ he knows how to do, but it still feels so different, doing it for someone else. He squeezes at the base, drags the skin all the way up, just halfway, then drags it back down, just the way he likes it. He turns his head, a rough _Kiss. Iwaizumi-san_ on his tongue, and those soft lips are back on his, trembling, wet and abused.

It doesn’t take much. Iwaizumi’s already trembling, already oversensitive. All it takes is one more stroke, one more twist of his wrist and he feels the warm stickiness spreading over their abdomens, in time with a full-body shudder. Iwaizumi’s near-convulsing in his hold, riding out his orgasm, still moving himself on Kindaichi’s fingers. Kindaichi thrusts shallowly, curls his fingers until Iwaizumi’s whining into his mouth _too much, too much Kindaichi_.

Kindaichi carefully, slowly pulls out, drawing back as Iwaizumi’s constricting limbs fall away. He’s breathing hard, floating down from the high, and Kindaichi contents himself with watching him, heart fluttering at the sight of Iwaizumi so out of it, blushed pink and wrung dry.

He’s about to sit up, maybe look for a cloth to wipe Iwaizumi down with, but before he can get up there’s a hand on his waistband. He looks down, and Iwaizumi’s staring right back at him, tugging him back.

“Let me.” he whines, fingers trembling, scrabbling over the button of Kindaichi’s trousers. Kindaichi relents, because what else can he do, faced with those desperate eyes, bright with tears, mouth hanging open like he’s hungry for it, like nothing will satisfy him but this. He sounds so needy, so wrecked.

All because of Kindaichi.

He lets Iwaizumi pull his boxers down and aside, flinging them somewhere inconsequential. His breath is warm, shaky against the heated skin.

“Condom?” Kindaichi whines quickly, because he knows once Iwaizumi gets his mouth on him it’ll be the end of him, he can’t promise to stay rational, to stay in control.

“It’s fine.” Iwaizumi moans, mouthing at the skin of his pelvis, stretched tight over his hips. “You’re clean. It’s fine.” He mouths at the base of his cock, sucking in patches of skin, cheeks hollowing lewdly. “Better like this.”

He finally gets his tongue out, licks tiny, teasing swipes over his shaft, head lifting to the tip until he’s tonguing at the precum beading at the slit, pulling the foreskin back to get his mouth around the sensitive head. Kindaichi curses, joints locking, flailing uselessly as he’s embraced by the wet heat of Iwaizumi’s mouth.

God, there’s nothing like it. Nothing like the rhythmic contractions, the smooth glide of his tongue, the _sounds_. Iwaizumi doesn’t quiet down. Not even with his cock in his mouth. In fact, he’s moaning even more, whimpering as he pushes himself further down, takes more of Kindaichi’s cock until it hits the back of his throat.

“Iwaizumi-san—” Kindaichi whimpers, squirming away from the sensation, struggling to breathe, struggling to keep himself together. He’s close. God, he so _close_.

Iwaizumi’s hand wraps around the base, thumbing over his balls, drawn tight into his skin, at the brink of releasing especially with how Iwaizumi sucks, slurps, bobs over and over and—

Kindaichi screams, reaches out and pulls Iwaizumi down before he can stop himself, feeling his throat contract around the sudden penetration, feels his lips tremble around the base and his fingers sink into his thighs and that’s all he needs. That’s all he needs and he’s finally coming down Iwaizumi’s throat.

He lets go and Iwaizumi draws back instantly, coughing, hacking, white at the corners of his lips where he couldn’t swallow. Kindaichi doesn’t even have time to let the guilt settle because when Iwaizumi looks at him there’s a fire in his eyes, mouth twisted into a slightly manic grin, lips swollen red. Ruined.

“Baby that was…” he gasps, voice shot with the satisfaction of getting fucked properly, “that was so hot.”

He lets Iwaizumi crawl over him, kissing all over his face like he’s thanking him, like he’s showering Kindaichi with praise he doesn’t deserve.

“God, if you apologize I’ll hit you.” Iwaizumi snarls, biting into Kindaichi’s cheek petulantly. “I liked it. Don’t worry about it.”

Still, Kindaichi works to be gentle, sweeps his hands down Iwaizumi’s sides, down to his hips, wraps arms around him and pulls him close, hissing as their limp, oversensitive cocks brush against each other. It takes a bit of wriggling and squirming until finally Iwaizumi’s settled into his arms, bodies flush together, embracing and kissing, basking in their shared afterglow.

“Would you fuck me next time?” Iwaizumi croons, nuzzling into his jaw. “Want your cock.”

Kindaichi swallows, pointedly looks away even when his hands dig into the small of Iwaizumi’s sweat-slick back. “I don’t...I—”

Iwaizumi nods, shushing him with a thumb on his lips, kissing him softly in apology. “Okay.” he says, presses another kiss to his cheek. “Whatever you want, Kindaichi. Whenever you’re ready.”

There are no words for this moment. No words to describe how content he feels.

No words…except the ones he knows he’s not allowed to say.

So he stays silent. Kisses Iwaizumi on the lips, just one more time, to make up for it.

 

-

 

 **09 JULY 2016**  
**22:38**

_Ushijima_

He runs.

 _Ushijima._ A gasp. The creak and shudder of a bed in time with grunts and the slap of naked skin. _Harder. Shit. God. You feel so good._

He runs but no matter how fast, no matter how many times he stumbles, no matter how much his thighs and his knees ache and his heart pounds, he can’t get it out of his head.

He can’t drown out the sounds of Iwaizumi moaning another man’s name; wanton, pitched, desperate, exactly like how he sounds when he’s with Kindaichi.

(Probably…Most likely…it’s also how he sounds like with other faceless, nameless men.

Kindaichi is nothing special.

He’s never been anything special.)

“Kindaichi?”

He’s breathing hard, breaths coming in faster than he can expel them. His eyes burn, his face is numb. Everything blurs into one incoherent mass of _nothing_ and before he knows it his knees buckle, pain shooting up his legs when bone meets wood. His mouth is open and his throat itches the way it does after a scream, after a long, hard cry, and he hasn’t felt that in a year and _god_ feeling it again rips up wounds he thought he’d healed up a long time ago.

He scrubs his hands over his face, tries to curl in on himself but suddenly there’s a weight against his chest, elbows against his ribs, hands on his back, pushing and pulling at the same time, keeping him steady. Upright. Anchored.

There’s a voice in his ear. He can’t pick out words, but he knows the voice. He’s known this voice for ten years. Has sought it more than the voices of his own parents.

Kunimi. Kunimi’s here. Kunimi pats down his hair and smooths his palms down his back and kisses his jaw and _—here, I’m here. Kindaichi it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. Breathe with me, Yuu._

The childhood nickname is enough to break him down completely. Suddenly he’s thirteen again. Thirteen and crying and heartbroken, the pieces of him all cradled up in Kunimi’s tiny, thin arms.

How could he have been so _stupid_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok for real now, chapter 6 is DEFINITELY gonna be late. I only managed this bc I accidentally took a day off last Thursday (yes, accident. I popped a sleeping pill the night before and slept through my alarm and my family didn’t bother to wake me up).
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/157395826306/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-5-dont-tell-me) for chapter 5


	6. oh it's such a shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this contains a bit of rough UshiIwa roleplay sex they get pretty violent so uhh...take care

**16 JUNE 2016**  
**12:04**

Iwaizumi wakes with a grunt, hand shooting out of the cocoon of his blanket to grab his ringing phone. He squints a little, past the large _Hanamaki Takahiro_ displayed on the screen to check the time, groaning a little louder when he realizes it’s past noon.

Too fucking early, in other words.

“Wha’ya wan’?” he grumbles as soon as he picks up, smoothing a palm over his hair, sitting up and slowly adjusting to the light stabbing into his eyes.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” A pause. A shuffle. Then, “Afternoon, I mean.”

Iwaizumi groans, falling back on his pillows. “Fuck you, man. I had a long shift.”

“I noticed. You didn’t even text last night to let us know you were home. How the fuck do you get customers on a Wednesday night is beyond me.” Hanamaki mumbles, but even under the haze of drowsiness, Iwaizumi doesn’t miss the undertone of distaste, perpetually present whenever Iwaizumi’s job is so much as hinted in conversation. Just as quickly, it’s replaced by his usual tone, casual and flat. “But anyway, Issei got coupons to this onsen in Taihaku. Wanna come? We were hoping to schedule for whenever you’re free.”

Iwaizumi blinks at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around the suggestion. “You sure I won’t be intruding? This sounds like a couple thing.”

There’s a beat of silence, just enough for Hanamaki to roll his eyes, maybe. “Of course not. How many times I gotta tell you that just because Issei and I are dating now doesn’t mean you get to be excluded. Ever.”

Iwaizumi groans, mimicking the sound of someone heaving their guts out. “I can’t handle this much cheese in the morning.”

“But we looooove yooooouuu—”

“Stop that or I’m hanging up, I swear.”

“You haven’t answered my question yet!”

Iwaizumi can’t help the smile forming over his face, the ache in his cheeks warm and uplifting. “I’d love to. Is this gonna be an overnight deal?”

“If you can. We can even jog in the morning if you want.”

He perks up at the suggestion. Fuck, he hasn’t jogged in _months_. Hasn’t been to an onsen in even longer.

“I’m gonna be a bit busy this month though…maybe…July? July 10 to 12 should be good.”

“Alright! Think you can finalize the dates by next Monday though? So Issei and I can file in vacation leaves.”

“Sure.” Iwaizumi pauses, chews the inside of his cheek. “Thanks, Taka.”

In the silence of his room, the catch in Hanamaki’s breath is heard clearly. For a moment, Iwaizumi feels guilty.

“For what?”

There’s so much. There’s so much Iwaizumi has to be thankful for but all the reasons surge up in his throat and clog it. He opens his mouth and nothing but a strangled sound comes out, a mockery of the things he actually wants to say.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to say it. You’re welcome.” Hanamaki laughs, sparing him the embarrassment. “Bye, Hajime-kun. Eat something other than cereal for breakfast, will you? Love you lots!”

He hangs up before Iwaizumi can pretend to be grossed out, or be real with his feelings for once in his life and actually say it back. Iwaizumi sighs, runs a hand over his face to hide the smile, even when there’s no one to hide it from.

There are a lot of drawbacks to being in the sex industry, but the one Iwaizumi hates most is the fact that he’s become a bit of a night owl, living most of his life in the dead of night. He starts his shifts at 9 and ends at 2—1 if he’s lucky—then he takes the fifteen-minute walk back to his apartment, wash off the glitter and makeup, the smell of smoke and money, then wind down enough so he can sleep. Whatever remains of his day between waking up and the start of his shift is usually spent preparing: getting into the right mindset for work and practicing a few dance routines.

In conjunction with his reverse schedule from the rest of the world, it only follows that he doesn’t have that many friends outside of work. Well. Not that he had very many to begin with. Ever since high school, it’s only ever Matsukawa and Hanamaki. He’d unfortunately been made to sit between Hanamaki and Matsukawa and became their unofficial note-passer, which of course landed him in detention with the two of them, but in that hour spent cleaning the classrooms as punishment, they’d crowbarred their way into his life and had stayed ever since.

He loves them. He loves both of them and some days they’re enough, most days they’re _more_ than enough. Matsukawa and Hanamaki are already handfuls enough on their own. Affectionate and overbearing and sometimes Iwaizumi feels like he’d expended a week’s worth of energy after spending a whole day with them.

But he wonders what it would be like to live a little normally again; wake up at 5AM to jog around the block, go to the park or to the store without the perpetual anxiety that he’ll be recognized, that someone will follow him home, tell his neighbors, tell his landlord; have the chance to meet people outside of work; make new friends, maybe.

Although he thinks he’d lost any hope for normal interactions too, his witty tongue only good for slurring out innuendos, his eyes hard-wired to look seductive and half-lidded, his body naturally curving to emphasize his most desirable features. All the things that make him good at his job make him bad for the real world. Whatever it is that’s out there, he’s completely alienated himself from it.

It’s a good life, really, but _god_ some days he just wants a normal one.

He doesn’t notice the blinking light on his phone until a little later, when his thoughts have quieted a little. He opens up his messaging app, expecting Hanamaki to leave a follow up text to remind him, but instead, the name at the top of his queue is Kindaichi’s.

 **From: Kindaichi**  
**Received: 06:04, Jun 16**  
_Good morning! Have a nice day._

Iwaizumi giggles. An entirely too-high-pitched sound he’ll never admit to making, even under the threat of death. _This_. God, he missed this. The innocent exchange of sweet texts and words, waking with the warm fluttering of tiny wings in his stomach, entirely new and utterly different from the intense heat, the crackling sparks that come with flirting with clients in Seijou.

He gets up from bed and snaps a photo of the little terrariums on his desk. All gifts from Matsukawa, happily growing in their little glass pods. He pokes a finger inside to stroke a leathery leaf, whisper _good morning_ and sends the image to Kindaichi before sliding his bedroom door aside to reveal the rest of his apartment.

He doesn’t have much to brag in terms of space, or decor. He knows he can afford so much more than this, but he doesn’t see the point when even this seven-tsubo apartment feels too big sometimes. He’s only ever home to relax, to have some time to himself before he’s plunged back into the wild din of his job, so he keeps everything muted. All beiges and whites accented with just a few earthen tones. He keeps a wide area of the living room empty just to practice dancing, a large floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted on the wall so he can monitor himself better. Then there’s the kitchen, just enough space for him to cook a meal for one.

There are three doors just past the living room, closer to the entryway: one for the bathroom, one for the toilet, and the third is a stockroom he always keeps under lock and key.

He rarely ever steps foot in it, but today he reaches inside the potted plant beside the bathroom door, digs a little until his fingers brush the cold metal under moist soil. They key fits the lock perfectly, and he twists it to pull back the cylinder, pushes to get the heavy door open.

The room smells like must, smells like old vanilla and trapped air. There are bags and boxes and a rack of clothes in protective plastic. Gifts from his patrons, still with their tags and price stickers, branded with names he can’t even pronounce. He keeps a couple of the more unassuming ones for himself: simple but sturdy backpacks, a couple of the heels and boots he can use for work, a full suit and the leather jackets. Sometimes he invites the other dancers over to take some stuff out of his hands, but mostly they’re just here, gathering dust. His own personal trophy collection.

The things in this room probably cost more than his apartment. Before, when he was new and starting out and confused as to _how_ all these men find him desirable, he would spend hours in this room, surrounded by open boxes and luxury, just admiring the gleam of 24-karat gold on his skin, the sparkle of gems and the sheen of pearls on the crest of his collarbones. Back then he’d just get high on it, the idea that he somehow has the power to make these men surrender to him with just the right sway of his hips, the rehearsed curve of his smile.

Now…Now it still gives him a bit of an ego boost, a bit of a tingle of excitement in his spine. Not as potent as it used to be but it helps. Helps for the days he likes to—needs to—remind himself of why he stepped through the double doors of Seijou one day and never left.

He sighs fondly, takes the few steps back and closes the light. Shuts the door. Locks it and reburies the key, then prepares to make breakfast.

Maybe he’ll have grilled salmon today.

 

-

 

**18 JUNE 2016**  
**01:19**

Out of all his sexual exploits, Kindaichi is memorable for all the oddest reasons.

His job has no shortage of men pretending to know what they’re doing, deluded ones who think they’re complete sex gods, fucking him with a rhythm and technique so predictable Iwaizumi would have found more thrill in riding a merry go round.

Kindaichi is...painfully honest about his inexperience. He fumbles, he’s clumsy, his face freezes in hilarious mortification at the sight of a butt plug. So _adorable_. A breath of fresh air.

He’s also gentle. Eager to please. Eager to learn. He looks at Iwaizumi like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and that’s nothing new really, but what _is_ is how Kindaichi holds him like he’s sacred. Slides hands and kisses down his body in reverent worship. Gets that guilty flash in his eyes whenever he loses control and treats Iwaizumi with even just a shade of roughness.

Being manhandled, Iwaizumi can deal with. Being pushed down by his neck and being used, being called a _slut_ and a _whore_ …all these he’s learned to like. But this…Kindaichi’s affection is so different—different from Oikawa’s even. Aftercare from his rougher clients always feel laced with duty, more obligation than anything else. Kindaichi gives it so wholeheartedly, so sincerely. He gives it like he’s trying to make up for all those times the world had hurt Iwaizumi, gives it even when Iwaizumi doesn’t ask, doesn’t need it, and it’s so pure and sweet and Iwaizumi honestly doesn’t know how to deal with it.

His musings are rudely cut off by the door to his dressing room opening with a slam, the knob colliding with the wall. He turns, eyebrow cocking at the sight of Yahaba in his doorway, hand on his hip and pointing an accusing finger at him.

“What’s this I heard about you finally giving away your main client slot?” he screeches, like he has any right to raise his voice at Iwaizumi.

“One,” Iwaizumi starts, tone firm and commanding, “how many times do I have to tell you not to slam my door and _two_ ,” he stands, taking in a bit of satisfaction at how Yahaba’s expression subtly shifts, fear bleeding into the indignation, “how did you even find out about that?”

“Watari let it slip earlier during break.” Yahaba answers, tone noticeably meeker. “And I managed to get the rest with a handjob.” he lets himself inside and closes the door behind him with a heel, blocking out the crowd of curious dancers gathering outside. “Details, Iwaizumi-san. _Please_.”

Iwaizumi sighs, lifting a hand to usher him over, uncaring of how his room is a mess, empty lube packets still strewn on the floor. Yahaba wastes no time and jumps on the bed, carelessly wrinkling his black camisole. Eh. Good thing he just changed the sheets.

“This was the guy who saved you last Saturday?” he asks, stockinged legs kicking in the air. “When that asshole pulled you off the stage?”

Iwaizumi nods. Yahaba’s smile twitches deviously.

“He’s cute. Not really my type but cute.”

“Your type is rich and narcissistic.”

“You know me so well, Iwaizumi-san.” Yahaba grins, eyes curving sweetly. “Too bad all my types go for you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that Oikawa and I are just friends?”

Yahaba sighs, dramatically pressing the back of his hand against his forehead and tilting it back. “You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, Iwaizumi-san.”

“I’m _not_.” Iwaizumi growls, faking a kick in his direction. “It’s just…different between him and me.” he bites his lip. Why is it always so hard explaining his relationship with Oikawa? “But it’s not love. Kind of. Not the kind you all are thinking at least.”

“So you and Oikawa-san _aren’t_ secretly engaged and planning to elope to Tokyo?” Yahaba gasps, sitting up straight. “Damn, now I owe Mad Dog ten thousand yen.”

“Why would you bet—” Iwaizumi sputters, then backtracks, then crosses his arms in resignation. “Know what, whatever, I don’t even wanna know”

“We got a betting pool on for Ushijima-san and Tendou-san too, by the way.”

“Lovely.” Iwaizumi mutters dryly.

Yahaba shuffles up higher on the bed to grab a pillow and cuddle closer. “So, tell me more about your prince charming.”

“He’s…interesting.”

Yahaba hums, eyes bright with an attentiveness he usually spares for men with thick wallets and expensive watches. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and likewise gets comfortable.

“It started when his friend paid me to give him a lapdance and a handjob. Birthday gift. Y’know the drill.”

“Nice friends.” Yahaba drawls, in that way that states that he clearly means the opposite.

“Well he’s a virgin so I think they were trying to help him out with tha—”

“Wait.” Yahaba perks up. “Wait. You’re serious.”

“Newsflash, Yahaba, not everyone loses it in high school. In fact, pretty sure that’s the minority.”

Yahaba shrugs, settling back down. “Ok so did you help him punch his V card yet?”

“We haven’t fucked.”

An eyebrow flies upward until it disappears behind silver bangs. “What? Why?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, struggling to not sound too dejected. “He doesn’t want to.”

“Doesn’t _want_ —” Yahaba sputters, bristling in outrage. “God _damn_ , Iwaizumi-san I volunteer as proxy—”

Iwaizumi whacks him with his pillow. Yahaba yelps, bringing his arms up to protect himself.

“Ow! Stop! _Stop_! I’m being serious here. How can you take in a man who can’t appreciate your lovely assets,” Yahaba gestures vaguely to his pelvis, then makes squeezing motions with his hands in mid-air, “as your main client?”

“None of your business, geez. Wait, what are you—”

“Have you’ve gotten too much kinky sex you finally wanna try vanilla? Is that what’s happening here? ‘Cos I can do vanilla too Iwaizumi-san—”

“Oi! _Get your hand out of my shorts_!”

 

-

 

 **07 JULY 2016**  
**21:28**

 

“Fuck, I missed your mouth.”

Iwaizumi smirks against Oikawa’s lips, tilts his head and opens his mouth for his tongue. He drags his teeth across the smooth underside, his own tongue sliding over Oikawa’s, twirling, dancing and mapping out the crevices. He loves making out with Oikawa more than most people. Oikawa with his perfect row of teeth and too-sharp canines, with his supple and clever tongue, with the haze of mint lacing his breaths. Fuck. Iwaizumi seriously has to check if Oikawa’s secretly stashed some mouth spray under the pillows because there’s no way a guy who just had his mouth on Iwaizumi’s dick still has breath this fresh.

Oikawa gives his tongue an almighty suck, much like how he did to his cock earlier, before he’d come all over those swollen lips, decorating the pretty red of it with stripes of his come. Iwaizumi groans and Oikawa draws back, watching the line of spit connecting them break in midair.

Soft gasps pepper the silence between them, breaths condensing wet and warm over their faces. Iwaizumi huffs, arms tightening around Oikawa’s shoulders to pull him closer.

“ _Now_ are you going to tell me how your trip went?”

That had been the first thing he asked, the moment Oikawa stormed across his dressing room, but he couldn’t even finish the sentence before Oikawa was kissing him, feral and hungry, ripping his clothes off with about as much finesse as a starved man sat before a feast.

Now they lie in the lazy aftermath, playfully cuddling and kissing atop the sheets, naked and a bit gross and sticky, but Oikawa never seems to mind. He cups the side of his face, thoughtfully smearing his spit-slick fingers in odd little patterns on his neck. “It was an entire month with my father and without you, that should be enough to tell you that it sucked.”

Iwaizumi’s lip curls in exaggerated disgust. “Sap.”

“You like it, stop being tsun and just admit it.”

Iwaizumi huffs. Oikawa laughs, leaning in and coaxing Iwaizumi close for another kiss. Iwaizumi playfully resists just for a bit (can’t have Oikawa think he’s _too_ easy) before yielding, letting Oikawa hold the back of his head, pull him in—

Suddenly his phone is ringing, the sound different from his usual ringtone. Shit. Immediately, he draws back, scrambling over to the nightstand to accept the call.

“Kindaichi?” Iwaizumi answers, turns when he hears a strange, offended sound from behind him.

Oikawa’s face is hilarious, in any other context, but Iwaizumi can’t even savor it right now, lifting his palm, flat and splayed wide in a _wait_ gesture.

_Hi Iwaizumi-san. Are you busy?_

“No, not really.”

At that, Oikawa whines a little too loudly behind him, the bed creaking as he crawls closer. Iwaizumi aims a kick at him, only to have his ankle caught. “What is it? You usually don’t call.”

_Sorry! Sorry. I just—_

Iwaizumi suddenly yelps, wrenching his foot out of reach of Oikawa’s tickling fingers. “Stop it!” he hisses, covering his phone with his hand. Oikawa pouts, not even looking the least bit remorseful, tugging at his leg insistently. Iwaizumi smacks the hand away, bringing the phone back up to his ear.

_—Iwaizumi-san? If you’re busy, it’s fine, I can just—_

“No, no! There’s just a really annoying bug in my room.”

Oikawa squawks. Iwaizumi reaches up to cover his mouth.

 _Oh. I see._ Kindaichi replies, obviously trying hard not to sound doubtful. He takes a breath, the way he usually does when he’s trying to find the courage for something. _I was calling to ask if I can come by this Saturday instead? Our boss’ fiance is holding a late birthday celebration and...well..._

If Kindaichi had a tail, Iwaizumi pictures it wagging low and restless between his legs. Fuck. He’s so cute. “Sure, no problem! Same time?”

_Oh, I was hoping to be there around—_

Iwaizumi stiffens, nearly dropping his phone. He turns sharply to grant Oikawa another venomous glare, but the asshole has his eyes half-lidded, pink tongue sliding between the V of his fingers, lewdly licking thick stripes along the skin, the tip catching at the webbing between.

Oikawa’s gaze rolls up to meet his, and Iwaizumi feels the smirk beneath his palm, barely even a second before Oikawa opens his mouth wide, sucking in three of Iwaizumi’s fingers at the same time, sinking right down to the knuckle without a hitch.

_—If that’s alright?_

“Uhh…” Iwaizumi shudders, fighting to keep his voice even. “Sure. See you then.”

He hangs up quickly, mouth open and free hand drawn back to smack Oikawa upside the head and give him a piece of his mind but the brunette immediately crashes into him, rubbing the top of his mussed head on Iwaizumi’s chest.

“Iwa-chaaaan,” he whines, “you know I don’t like sharing your attention.”

“You’re such a spoiled _brat_.” Iwaizumi gasps, part exasperation and part because Oikawa’s suddenly has a mouth on his nipple, sucking lightly.

“Here I am, coming back from a month-long trip,” he bites, drags the sharp points of his teeth over skin, “experiencing Iwa-chan withdrawal,” his hands come up on his waist, pushing, “and you just replace me for your latest client?”

“God stop being such a drama quee—”

“How could you do this to me?” Oikawa wails, throwing his head back with the most unconvincing, overplayed sob Iwaizumi’s ever heard.

Iwaizumi sighs, lets Oikawa move him so that they’re back to lying on the bed, Oikawa’s body aligned perfectly behind him.

“Did you even miss me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa mouths along his nape. He can feel him pouting, the lower jut of his lip pressing on his skin.

“I did.” Iwaizumi relents. “I _did_ miss you. Happy?”

“Yes.” is the thrilled reply. A smile-shaped kiss is pressed on his hairline. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

Iwaizumi stops, going completely still. Unnaturally still. Oikawa hums curiously, head angling to look at him.

He doesn’t realize how much he’d tried to suppress the entirety of the past week until it all comes crashing back with the force of a bullet train. He thinks of Kindaichi. He thinks of the fight with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, the vacation they’d been planning for a month that might not even happen, now. He thinks of that one morning spent curled up with his phone and Oikawa’s number flashing in his head, wanting to call, wanting to cry, wanting him to come home, because everything is shit and he just wants to be held and told everything will be fine and isn’t it sad that he has no one to do that for him so he turns to one of his clients?

“A lot.” is all he says instead. And even then he chokes at the last syllable.

The silence that settles after those words is suffocating. Oikawa shifts behind him, his warmth abandoning Iwaizumi but he doesn’t leave him alone for too long. Oikawa tugs him until he’s lying on his back, Oikawa lying beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, hand low on his hip and pinky sliding over the curve of his thigh in a gesture too intimate for their current setting. Iwaizumi shivers, reaches down to stop Oikawa’s ministrations.

“Tell me about it?”

Iwaizumi stiffens. “But you’re still payi—”

“I came here to relax and to see you.” Oikawa replies flippantly. “Both check out just fine.”

Iwaizumi sighs heavily, rolling his eyes. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Oikawa’s hand starts moving under Iwaizumi’s again, thumb delicately trailing over his. His body shifts, but only to move so that they’re curled up closer together, their shared warmth welling in the near-nonexistent space between their bodies.

“I know. I’m just so amazing, aren’t I?” Oikawa whispers, kisses him again, soothing something deep within him. Iwaizumi laughs, rusty-sounding but sincere and easy. Oikawa laughs with him, calming and reassuring, clear as the finest bell.

“Tell me everything.” he says, and Iwaizumi does.

 

-

 

 **09 JULY 2016**  
**21:06**

“Safeword?” Ushijima asks, the moment he steps through the door, ever the gentleman. Iwaizumi dutifully takes his coat, presses a slow kiss onto his lips, and whispers _red_ against his jaw.

Iwaizumi’s dressed well tonight. Nicely tailored trousers and a crisp white button up, embellished with silver cufflinks and nice silk suspenders. Ushijima likes his boys classy, likes them looking like products of good breeding, likes them looking like little princes and corporation heirs. Iwaizumi sees the appeal, honestly. Knows how much more satisfying it is to ruin someone so proper, how he has to work just that little bit harder to reduce him to a slut begging for cock.

He’s ready to play the part tonight, the heat already pooling between his legs. Ushijima hasn’t fucked him in so long. Too long, even. And damn if Iwaizumi doesn’t miss him just a little bit.

He pours a bit of champagne for him and Ushijima, just to get a bit of a buzz going, just to get everything started. They always set up the room according to Ushijima’s stringent specifications. For tonight, the setting is an opulent bedroom, the floors carpeted, a four-poster sitting at the head of it, its curtains a thick velvet. There’s a loveseat near the corner where he and Ushijima are curled up on, facing a fireplace mounted on the wall, a plush, furry rug flattened out before it. The walls are a deep burgundy, the color of old red wine, of blood spilled in the dead of night, of Iwaizumi’s lips when Ushijima chokes him till his eyes cross…

“I heard you have a new plaything.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes dart up to meet Ushijima’s. His voice is monotone, only colored with mild interest, as always. Iwaizumi heaves a silent sigh through his nose. Does no dancer in this club know the meaning of confidentiality anymore?

“I have new toys almost every night, Ushijima. What’s your point?”

“You know full well what it is.”

The suddenness of the reply disturbs the air like the crack of a whip. Suddenly, everything stills. The rumble of his voice bears down on him. The hand on the armrest is now on his thigh. Possessive. Tight. His eyes burn with something dangerous, the flickering flame playing up the threatening shadows on his face.

“The fuck are you so angry about?” Iwaizumi retorts, shoving the hand away, tamping down the elated shiver skittering all across his bones. He _loves_ it when Ushijima gets like this. “You think I don’t know about that redheaded slut you keep on the side?”

He moves to get up from the couch, lets the pretend-rage consume him and leaves his body to act accordingly, but he doesn’t even manage to stand. A hand fists his hair, sharply yanks him back, and he falls back on the couch with a pained scream.

“It makes no difference how many people I bring to my bed. But you,” Ushijima growls, breaths coming heavy and harsh, spitting fire, “you’re _mine_ Iwaizumi Hajime. This,” he grabs his crotch, large hand cupping his cock and balls in all their entirety, and Iwaizumi gasps, squeezes his legs together in resistance, “no one else gets to touch this but me.”

“Fucking get over yourself.” Iwaizumi spits, presses his palms against Ushijima’s chest, pushing, punching, “I don’t belong to you.”

Ushijima draws back the slightest bit, and Iwaizumi doesn’t delude himself into thinking that it’s because of his blows. Ushijima is built like a tank, solid and muscled and pure, controlled strength. He moves only because he wants to.

“That’s not what you said the last time I was inside you.” Ushijima whispers, teeth coming up to dig into his jaw. “Do you remember that, Hajime? When I had you bent over my desk, fucking you while you squealed like a pig?”

“Shut up, you piece of shit.” Iwaizumi snarls, even as he shivers at the memory; Ushijima’s breath hot on his nape as Iwaizumi wailed with every snap of his hips, already made to come twice before Ushijima even got his cock in him, oversensitive and trembling, on his toes because Ushijima’s too fucking tall, fighting not to buckle with every slam of his cock against his prostate, every slide of polished wood against his painful cock. And all the while Ushijima had one hand on his hip, keeping him angled, the other tight on his wrists, crossed at his lower back. _Who do you belong to, slut?_ Ushijima asked, the snap of the syllables cutting into his skin.

 _You. Yours. Yoursyoursyours. Oh, fuck!_ he screamed, his precarious hold on his pride long-gone, _Fuck, your cock is so good. So big. Shit!_

“Just admit it, Hajime. Just admit how much of a slut you really are.”

Iwaizumi clenches his teeth, plays hard to get longer than he usually does, pulls against the hand still in his hair, hips kicking to dislodge Ushijima’s hand. Ushijima fucks him better when he fights, when he pushes Ushijima to his own breaking point.

The slap is expected, though Iwaizumi pretends to gasp, lets himself fall limp for a moment in shock and Ushijima takes his cue to grab Iwaizumi by the front of his shirt and toss him on the furs like a ragdoll, the impact punching the breath right out of his lungs.

His heart is thundering in his chest, too fast and too loud but the erection straining against his jeans belies his fear. For a moment he forgets to struggle, when Ushijima forces himself between his legs and rips his shirt open, but when the rough scrape of his calloused thumb brushes his nipple, Iwaizumi gasps, moving to claw the hand off. Ushijima’s too fast for him, free hand already encircled around his wrists, the other working to get his tie off.

Ushijima roughly flips him over, digs his knee into the pressure point at the small of his back and the sudden pain shocks Iwaizumi into stillness. Iwaizumi muffles the scream into the furs, whimpering when Ushijima secures the tie around his wrists, tight enough to bite.

His touch suddenly becomes gentle, hands gliding over Iwaizumi’s arms, tracing the bulging muscle as he attempts to free himself. Iwaizumi gasps when the hands suddenly slide lower, squeeze between his body and the fur to cup between his legs, shamelessly grinding down on his erection.

“You’re hard.”

Iwaizumi whimpers, shakes his head vehemently. It doesn’t take as much effort to summon tears now, not with Ushijima’s knee digging into the sensitive dip of his spine, fingers kneading his crotch.

“Why do you still struggle, Hajime?” Ushijima hisses into his ear, nibbling the delicate swell of it. “Do you struggle so much just so you can at least sleep easier at night? Tell yourself that you fought, that you didn’t want it, that it only happened because I overpowered you? Or do you just like the feel of being forcibly subjugated?”

His explorations are slow, mockingly careful and intimate now that Iwaizumi’s been broken.

“Just get it over with.” Iwaizumi whispers, voice shaky with sobs. He turns to bury his face in the carpet, wipe off the tears staining his face, but Ushijima pulls his head back again, refusing him even that dignity.

“Is that any way for you to speak to me, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi gulps, but the second of hesitation causes Ushijima’s grip to tighten, pulling him back until his neck is sharply angled, until the back of his head burns with the individual pinpricks of hairs being pulled. He whimpers, struggles to find his words, and then,

“No.” he whines, trying to bend his body back to minimize the pain. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I—”

Ushijima lets go of him so suddenly, he pitches forward, would have broken his nose, probably, if it was something solid beneath him instead of the thick rug. But his respite is short. Ushijima stands, pulls Iwaizumi up by his elbow, and he stumbles to follow, walking on his knees.

Dimly, he feels Ushijima slip something into his hand, something squishy and round and immediately he recognizes it as their safety ball. He squeezes just to let Ushijima know he’s aware of it, takes comfort in the loud _squeak_ that echoes across the room.

Ushijima settles back on the loveseat, legs spread, one hand working to get his button open. Iwaizumi knows what to do when Ushijima gets his cock out, already hard, thick, the skin pulled back to expose the red-swollen head.

“Go on.” Ushijima prompts, and tangles his fingers into his hair. Iwaizumi only struggles a bit before allowing himself to be led down on Ushijima’s cock, flattening his tongue over his teeth and bottom lip to facilitate the slide of it down his throat.

He chokes at the first push. And the second. But Ushijima remains uncaring of the strangled sounds he makes, continuing to push until his lips are tight around the base, until his nose is buried in the thick forest of hair trailing up Ushijima’s abs. He’s careful not to accidentally squeeze the ball, controlling his spasms as Ushijima pulls up and shoves him back down.

It’s messy and disgusting, how he sputters around Ushijima’s cock, spitting saliva and precum on the expensive fabric of his trousers, but Ushijima only groans, throws his head back as Iwaizumi chokes on him, as his throat convulses around the wide girth of his cock.

“Should I fuck you on the bed, Hajime?” Ushijima asks, but doesn’t let him up to answer. “Seems a bit more than a slut like you deserves.”

When he finally pulls him off Iwaizumi takes a sudden breath, coughs wetly as it scrapes its way down, panting and sobbing, whining and trembling the way his role dictates him to. Ushijima licks up the mess, tongue laving over his raw lips and his chin, all the way down to his neck. Iwaizumi lets the ball drop to the floor as Ushijima drags him up again, pushing him over to the bed.

The suspenders are torn off his body with a snap, his trousers following suit. His brain is still hazy from the lack of oxygen but he can see Ushijima getting naked for him, getting ready to fuck him. His cock squirts a little at the thought, body tight with anticipation.

Ushijima scoffs as he crawls on the bed, gets between his legs. He probably noticed it. Always so sharp. “You’re so eager for it. I’m not even touching you but you’re already ready to come?”

Iwaizumi whimpers softly at the feel of his slick cock moving over his cleft, sliding up and down in a parody of sex, the head snagging and teasing his stretched hole. He can’t ever take Ushijima without preparing beforehand, working himself open with three fingers, shoving his biggest plug inside himself, walking around with it while waiting for him to arrive.

“Look at you, already loose and wet. Did you use your fingers, Hajime? Did you get yourself ready for my cock or did you get your new toy to fuck you before meeting me? _Answer_.”

“No…” Iwaizumi gasps, struggling to find a narrative when Ushijima’s tip is pushing inside him, already stretching his walls. “I used a plug. Just a plug. _Ah—_ ”

Ushijima thrusts in, hips rolling in inch by torturous inch, holding Iwazumi’s legs open and up, fingers digging into his thighs.

“I’ve seen your new boy, Hajime.” Ushijima growls, pushing into him until he’s buried at the hilt, until Iwaizumi feels stuffed full, his rim clenching around the cock spearing him open. “I honestly thought you had better taste than that. Can he even fuck you properly?”

Iwaizumi whines, tries to rock his hips to get Ushijima to start fucking him, but Ushijima’s grip tightens, keeps him right where he wants him. “Fuck—no. Couldn’t even—couldn’t make me come with his dick the way you can.”

“No one else can fuck you the way I do.” Ushijima hisses. “Do I fuck you better than your new toy? Bet he can’t even hurt you, Hajime, bet he can’t get you as desperate as this.”

He shivers. Shakes his head. “No. Always too gentle. Always too fucking gentle I fucking hated it— _fuck!_ ”

Ushijima sinks down to bite viciously at his neck, teeth sinking in as he finally starts to fuck him in earnest. Each slam of his hips pounds his prostate just right, and Ushijima twists his hips to get a better grip on him, pulling him back to meet him with every thrust, the bed creaking violently beneath them.

“Ushijima!” Iwaizumi cries out, his cock slapping against his stomach with every bounce. His fingers spasm and squirm, wanting to touch, wanting to come, but the fabric holds tight. He’s going to come on Ushijima’s cock or not at all. “Harder. Shit. God. You feel so _good_!”

Ushijima licks and sucks at the stretched column of his neck, ripping a keen from his throat. He’s out of breath, struggling to anchor himself around the sensations Ushijima is battering him with, pain and pleasure and humiliation, dirty whispers against his skin— _you like it rough, you dirty slut, don’t even deny it, imagine me fucking you like this on that stage, that pole you grind your desperate ass up on every night—_

Iwaizumi bites back a moan when Ushijima pulls him close, presses their bodies tight together, sandwiching his cock between their abdomens. He’s leaking, the slick of his precum easing the friction as he shamelessly grinds up on Ushijima.

“Fuck.” he groans, forgetting himself for a moment, shoulders rolling against his bonds. “Fuck Ushijima fuck, get me off, fucking _need_ it. Please—”

“Then cum.” Ushijima spreads his legs even more, thrusts into him even harder, the burn of the stretch going straight to his cock, curling his toes. “Cum, Hajime.”

He chokes on whatever sound escapes his mouth, his legs kicking uselessly in Ushijima’s grip, body twitching and shuddering under his greater weight when he finally orgasms, sticky spurts of white coating Ushijima’s torso. Vaguely, he feels the spill of warmth inside him, feels the pulsations of Ushijima’s cock as he groans, rides out his orgasm, pushing in and out until his cock goes soft.

“Fuck.” Iwaizumi breathes, vision still spinning from the headiness of the scene. “Red.” he mumbles, as an afterthought, and Ushijima grunts in acknowledgement, gently letting his legs down, brushing a thumb over the ticklish junction of his thighs.

“Untie me.” Iwaizumi groans, stretching out his neck and hissing at the familiar ache of a hickey, the slide of cum down his thighs. “Fucking hell Ushijima, this is going to cost you.”

“My apologies.” Ushijima mumbles, speech suddenly back to being even and calm like a switch’s been fucking flipped. God, Iwaizumi can never understand how he does it. Ushijima is quick to untie him, hands already moving to massage his wrists, but Iwaizumi pulls out of his grip, tumbling out of the bed.

“Shove it.” he winces, feeling the burn in his ass shoot up his spine, the strain of his shoulders. Ushijima tries to follow him but he waves off his concerned hands. “Hurry up and go already.”

“Have I upset you that much?”

Fuck, now he looks like a scolded puppy, shoulders hunched, brows slightly upturned. Iwaizumi sighs, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder.

“No but I have another appointment soon. You have to leave.”

Ushijima’s eyes clear up, obviously relieved. “Understood. But are you sure you don’t need me to…”

Iwaizumi shushes him with a finger to his lips, stands on his tiptoes to give him a peck. He feels Ushijima’s lips twitch in a small smile, his hand coming up to automatically brace his lower back. For all his domination kinks, he really is a sweet man.

“You know I’d love to, but I really am running late. Don’t worry, I’m fine, promise.”

Ushijima tilts his head, clearly hesitant, but Iwaizumi whacks his shoulder and hurries him out with an impatient _goooo_. He does eventually, but not without planting a small kiss on his shoulder as an affectionate goodbye.

Iwaizumi understands the importance of aftercare, really, and Ushijima’s an experienced enough Dom to know never to skimp out on it either, but he still has to prepare for his meeting with Kindaichi, and, well, any session with Kindaichi is pretty much counted as aftercare anyway.

He hurries to freshen up a little, just enough so that he doesn’t walk out into the hallway looking as rough as he feels.

When he’s just about satisfied with his appearance (it’ll have to do, at least, ‘til he gets back to his dressing room) he steps out, stalks the halls as fast as he possibly can with his slight limp, random pinpricks of pain still spiking from his ass.

“Iwaizumi-san!”

Iwaizumi turns. Yahaba’s rushing at him from the other end of the hall, waving. Iwaizumi returns the gesture, albeit limply.

“Did you see Kindaichi-san?”

Iwaizumi pauses, brows furrowing in confusion. “Kindaichi? You mean he’s here already?” he glances at his phone. It’s only a few minutes past ten. “Shit, could you stall him a bit? I still need to get ready—”

Yahaba pauses. Blinks. “But he arrived around thirty minutes ago. Didn’t you see him?”

Iwaizumi stops in his tracks. “No. Where’d you ask him to wait?”

“I told him to go right up to where you were meeting Ushijima-san.” Yahaba answers. “I told him he could go ahead and knock—”

Iwaizumi feels himself go cold. Feels the blood physically rush out of his face. The things he said earlier in the heat of his role replay in his mind like an ominous taunt.

_Always too gentle. Always too fucking gentle I fucking hated it._

Fuck. Why was he here. Why the fuck was he even here, it’s too early. It’s—

Everything around him slows. Stops. As if the air itself is freezing solid. It takes a fair bit of thinking to get the memory to spring back up.

_“Sure! Same time?”_

_“Oh, I was hoping be there around—”_

Yahaba’s still talking. Mouth flapping open and closed on words Iwaizumi can’t hear, the panic clouding his brain. Frantically, he dials. Presses the phone against his ear and waits out the rings until it goes to voice mail. He tries again. And again. And over and over he gets the same result.

His vision darkens and tunnels, the echo of _This is the voicemail of Kindaichi Yuutarou—_ bouncing around the hollows of his ears, straight down to the pit of his stomach where he feels all sorts of nauseous and disgusting.

He doesn’t even know when he’d hit the wall, but when he opens his eyes, Yahaba’s hands are on his shoulders, tight and digging into his robes but he doesn’t feel it. He just feels cold. Feels sick.

He fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapters are interludes from Oikawa and Makki~
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/157786982791/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-6-oh-its-such-a) for chapter 6


	7. Interlude III - Oikawa Tooru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: interludes are generally half the length of regular chapters  
> Oikawa: bitch i think not

**07 JULY 2016**  
**21:46**

Oikawa listens.

He can count on one hand every single instance of Iwaizumi baring his soul to him, and every single one of those moments he holds close to his chest. It’s no easy task, getting Iwaizumi to unload his burdens before they threaten to physically bend him at the waist under their suffocating weight. He’s been used to keeping everything in for far too long, never having anyone to talk to, never having anyone who understands.

In the silence of the room, with the smell of their mingling perfume tickling his nose, he lies next to Iwaizumi in bed and holds his hand, thumb brushing over his fingers, listening earnestly to his narration of the past month.

Iwaizumi starts on common ground, with Hanamaki and Matsukawa and their ever-smothering concern, with them confronting him one cloudy morning and not talking to him ever since. Oikawa understands, he thinks. He understands what it’s like to be protective of Iwaizumi, to not fathom why he enjoys being objectified, being the subject of so many hungry and lustful gazes, how he still chooses to stay, even after countless chances at a “better” life.

Oikawa understands all these because at some point he was on Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s side. Just one of the people who looked at Iwaizumi and saw someone who needed help, who wanted out, never even stopping to consider that this life is his own choice, his only freedom. Just one of the people who thought they were helping, but instead made Iwaizumi feel more alienated than he already is.

It took him a while. It took him a good, long while to understand that sometimes, empowerment is confidence in your own skin, feeling at home in the confines of your body. That sometimes, empowerment is being able to seduce a man leagues above your own stature with a simple sway of hips, a twitch of a cherry-flavored smile. That sometimes, empowerment is still being able to live your dream every night, dancing on a stage, dancing for a living, even after all the rejections and failed auditions and _you’ll never be a dancer_.

It took him a while. But he’s here now. And trying to make up for all those times he’s hurt Iwaizumi with his words and his ignorance, his thinly-veiled disgust.

He can only hope that Hanamaki and Matsukawa hurry up and get their heads out of their asses too.

“We were supposed to go to Taihaku.” Iwaizumi says, cheeks blotchy, distress at being emotional over something so menial. “We were supposed to be there for three days.”

Tears collect at the edges of Iwaizumi’s lids. He knows Iwaizumi rarely ever sees Hanamaki and Matsukawa anymore. Being on night shift and working over the weekends can do that to any relationship. And it’s not like those two ever visited Iwaizumi at work.

Oikawa reaches up, brushes a knuckle over the corner of Iwaizumi’s lids. And in a rare show of weakness, Iwaizumi leans into his touch.

“They’ll come around.” Oikawa reassures, though he doesn’t know enough about Matsukawa nor Hanamaki to make that statement, but he knows Iwaizumi needs to hear this. Needs to hear that he hasn’t lost them.

Oikawa had met them once. They’d been apprehensive. Had greeted him with their arms crossed and faces set in disapproval, but Oikawa had years of experience dealing with difficult people, and by the end of their meeting Matsukawa and Hanamaki had been cracking jokes, lips split open in genuine laughter, joking with Oikawa as if they’d known each other for far longer. They seemed like fine people, but even with Oikawa’s well-honed instincts, two hours isn’t nearly enough time to figure out all there is about a person.

“Do you need me to talk to them?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, eyes hardening back to their usual luster. His gaze is still far away, sometimes wandering back to the phone he dropped on the nightstand. Oikawa distracts him with a gentle hand passing over his hair, humming absently to some pop ballad until Iwaizumi relaxes in his arms, looking more thoughtful than anything, probably considering what else is worth telling.

“I have a main client now.”

Oikawa’s brows shoot up his forehead. Well now. He hadn’t expected this.

“Is that the one you were talking to on the phone earlier?”

Iwaizumi nods. And just like that, his entire disposition changes. Oikawa can see a bit of a blush crawl up his neck, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His skin grows warm beneath Oikawa’s touch.

“Aw,” Oikawa croons, pinching the sensitive spot at the junction of Iwaizumi’s thighs, tearing an undignified squeak from him, “has my Iwa-chan finally met his match.”

“Oh god, shut _up_.” Iwaizumi growls, smacks the back of his hand.

“What’s he like?” he asks, past the grin making his cheeks ache. “I need the truth Iwa-chan, is he better than me in bed?”

Iwaizumi’s face colors even more, the pretty pink of embarrassment.

“He’s…inexperienced, actually.”

It takes a while for the implication to settle, for Oikawa to realize why Iwaizumi’s suddenly blushing, gaze darting to and fro, and when it finally does, a lecherous grin splits his face.

“Oooh, Iwa-chan, I didn’t know you were into _that_.”

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi whines, smacking his side. Oikawa laughs, backs up when Iwaizumi feints for his ribs and grabs his wrists, pulling them up and holding them still.

“He’s taller than you, you know. Really cute too.”

“Height has nothing to do with penis size, Iwa-chan.”

“That’s not all I look for in a man, asshole.”

Oikawa smiles, pulls Iwaizumi in to kiss the pout off his lips.

“So why did you?” Oikawa asks, genuine curiosity lacing his voice, letting go of Iwaizumi’s hands. “You’ve never offered main clientship to anyone else. What makes this new boy so special?”

“He…” Iwaizumi looks down and to the side, “he treats me really well—”

“ _I_ treat you really well.”

“He’s affectionate and kind and—”

“ _I’m_ affectionate and kind and ow, ow! Okay, I’m kidding stop hitting me, ow!”

Iwaizumi pulls back his arm before Oikawa can grab it, cheeks puffed in irritation. “I’m never having a serious conversation with you.” One more hit for good measure. “Ever.”

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Oikawa chuckles, rubs the spots he’s been struck even though it doesn’t really hurt. “Continue.”

Iwaizumi’s face falls into that defensive sort of neutrality, the way it does when he’s thinking hard and trying not to let it show on his face. Oikawa lets him wallow in his silence for now, waiting, letting Iwaizumi decide what he wants to say at his own time.

“I think he’s in love with me.”

Oikawa stops here, stares Iwaizumi down even as he struggles to avoid Oikawa’s gaze, cheeks burning. He’s never mentioned this man before, so Oikawa can only guess that they met _after_ he left. That being the case, then Iwaizumi has only known this man for barely a month.

“That’s dangerous.”

Iwaizumi curls a little tighter around himself, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I know.”

Oikawa blinks slowly, reaches up to hold Iwaizumi around the shoulders, loose enough to let him know it’s alright, that he doesn’t have anything to be afraid of. Not here. Not with him.

“Are _you_ in love with him?”

A moment of hesitation. A brief flash of _something_ in Iwaizumi’s eyes, and Oikawa thinks he already has an answer.

But he doesn’t say anything. Oikawa watches his mouth open. Close. Then click shut with a severe finality in the line of his lips.

There’s a double-edged solace in the silence of things unsaid. How it makes it easier to pretend they don’t exist, to pretend they can’t hurt you, but all it does is delay the pain, gathering momentum until the inevitable crash.

Oikawa knows there’s no point in saying anything, that convincing Iwaizumi to say it will only cause him to bottle it up more. Instead, he kisses Iwaizumi, high on the peak of his forehead, where he loves it most, where it makes him feel loved, makes him feel safe.

Unconsciously, maybe, he crowds into Oikawa’s space, lining their bodies up as best as he can with their height difference. Iwaizumi’s always been self-conscious about his height. Iwaizumi’s always been self-conscious of all the reasons he thinks he never got accepted as a dancer, but Oikawa thinks he likes this. Likes that he’s still small enough to be held, to be cuddled and blanketed in someone’s arms.

And so Oikawa wraps both arms around Iwaizumi. Holds him tight. Kisses the spot below his ear and breathes deep, setting up a rhythm Iwaizumi can follow. Stays quiet.

He might have fallen asleep like that, he thinks, but the silence is still too weighted. He can still hear the cogs turning in Iwaizumi’s head, and he waits.

“Thank you.”

Oikawa hums curiously, angling his head to get a better look, but Iwaizumi has his face tucked in Oikawa’s shoulder, out of sight.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Iwaizumi whispers, so fragile and soft that Oikawa has to strain to even hear it. “God knows what I ever did to deserve you, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Iwaizumi’s trembling in his arms, as exposed as an open nerve, so vulnerable in ways he probably hasn’t allowed himself to be in a long time. He’s tucked tight against Oikawa, looking much smaller than he actually is, and for a moment, Oikawa is reminded of the very first time he’d ever laid eyes on him.

“Of course, Iwa-chan.” he mumbles, and presses a kiss into Iwaizumi’s hair.

 

-

 

 **17 DECEMBER 2009**  
**13:18**

“Nee-chan,” Oikawa whines, patent leather shoes kicking in the air, completely unfitting for an eighteen-year-old, but he’s too upset to care about appearances, “why do I have to go?”

She smooths down his hair, the way she always did when she’s trying to soften him up for a boring party or a long dinner with relatives he doesn’t particularly like. Her hands sweeping all the way down to his cheeks to smoosh them, his lips puckering automatically between her hands.

“Nobuo-kun’s gonna have a very important audition.” his sister explains, in all her majestic patience. “It’ll be very thoughtful for you to come to support your future brother-in-law.”

The last words send an unpleasant churn through his stomach. He fights his way out of his sister’s grip, scowling darkly.

“Tooru-chan.” his sister coos, but he huffs and pointedly shoves his hands in his pockets, walks ahead.

His sister is a beautiful woman. Intelligent. Athletic. Determined. She’s perfect in every way and honestly deserves more than her fiancé can ever hope to give her. Why and how they ever ended up betrothed is beyond him. She can do with someone who can actually love her, the way she deserves to be. She can do with someone who will fall tripping on their own feet just to spend some time with her, to support her endeavors, to cheer obnoxiously at her sporting events and auditions and fashion shows. She can do with so, _so_ much better.

Then again, he thinks bitterly, she might not have had a choice in the matter either.

He hears his sister hurrying up behind him, grabbing him by the back of his suit to steer him to the opposite corridor, where the auditorium probably is. Oops.

“Tooru,” his sister’s voice comes again, soothing, resigned—and it reminds Oikawa why he admires her so much.

“I know.” he says, just to spare her, leans against her side to comfort both of them. “I’m sorry, nee-chan.”

She grins down at him, the shine of her teeth like sunbeams between painted lips, and reaches down to pinch his cheek.

“It won’t be that bad.” she reassures, though in a voice that tells him she’s said these words innumerous times. “Kousuke-nii and his wife are very happy with each other.”

“Just because nii-chan got lucky doesn’t mean everyone does.” Oikawa responds bitterly, though a smile slips past his façade at the thought of his brother and his new family, at little baby Takeru, just a few months old and already the weakness of the entire family. “Nobuo better treat you well, nee-chan, or else I’ll kick his ass.”

She smacks him upside the head fondly. “That’s Nobuo-nii to you, brat.” she reminds, just as they cross the heavy double doors leading to the auditorium.

They arrive just in time to see a boy already standing up on stage.

Oikawa eyes the seats, waves hesitantly when he spots Nobuo in the third row, looking back and up at them. His sister also waves beside him, and her fiancé gives a polite smile in return, then looks forward, where the boy is bowing a perfect ninety degrees, preparing to introduce himself.

He says his name as he and his sister move to sit in the back row. _Iwaizumi Hajime_ , and immediately Oikawa notes the hint of dialect in his voice, the slight neutralization of his Is and Us, the slight nasality to his consonants. Refreshingly familiar. A Miyagi native, then.

His sister noticed it too. Her eyes immediately brighten in interest, leaning forward. Iwaizumi and the head judge have a brief exchange of reminders and pleasantries and a gentle _whenever you’re ready_.

Oikawa uses the brief silence to assess him better. He’s tall, toned in all the right places for a dancer. He’s wearing a white shirt and black shorts. Nothing too distracting, though the shorts cut dangerously high up his thighs, and Oikawa’s stare can’t help but drag appreciatively up the shapely length of his legs.

He’s trembling, just a little bit. So earnest and endearingly nervous that Oikawa has to resist the urge to whoop and clap, just for a bit of encouragement.

The music starts up, and his once unstable breathing seems to peter out. He closes his eyes. Takes a breath. And another.

Oikawa hears violins in the music, simple percussion accompanying the song of the strings. Iwaizumi still hasn’t moved, and just as Oikawa begins to feel worried that he’d frozen completely out of fear, his body springs into motion.

Oikawa doesn’t know what he expected. Hip-hop, maybe? A street style? The boy’s appearance certainly suggested it. But instead, he’s dancing ballet. Perhaps closer to contemporary now that Oikawa looks closer, notes his slightly exaggerated movements.

He’s lithe. Graceful. Strong in his limbs and core. He leaps high in the air in smooth little arcs, perfectly in time with the music. Some of his movements are already scholastic, clueing in on a history of dance education: how he stays on his tiptoes, how easily he spins, how he keeps his center of gravity just right to compensate for his more gymnastic movements. He transitions easily from fluid to sharp, body clicking in place then just as easily flowing with the stretch of a chord.

Oikawa has never been to an audition in his life, but he thinks if there is ever an ideal, then this is it. Iwaizumi moves like he has _everything_ to lose, surrendering the entirety of his being to the music, body and soul and passion and clear years of hard work moving his body for this one shot at a dream.

Oikawa has read about genuine inspiration all his life: has read about tales of artists and their muses, of beauty and passion so vividly enticing, of love at first sight.

He didn’t think they were actually real. Didn’t think he himself would fall victim to something so frivolous.

And yet…

The music crests one final time and Iwaizumi leaps into the air, back curved in a perfect arch, arms open and head back, like he’s jumping into an imaginary lover’s waiting embrace. Too quickly, the music slows to a stop, and so do Iwaizumi’s movements, doing one last pirouette in time with the final note, then slides to the ground, delicately curled up around himself, eyes closed.

The auditorium erupts in polite applause. Oikawa wants to stand, wants to clap as loud as his hands possibly can. He wants to whistle and cheer and give this dancer the ovation he deserves, but his dignity closes around his throat just in time, and all he can do is sit in stunned silence, wondering if any of that was even real.

“That was nice.” his sister comments from beside him. His head whips around so fast, staring at her, indignation swelling into mild anger. _Nice?_ Were they even watching the same audition?

The auditorium quiets down before he can say anything. From what Oikawa can see, the head judge adjusts his glasses, dotting a few more things into the clipboard on the desk.

“Thank you.” he says, not even looking up at Iwaizumi. “We’ll let you know how it goes. Results come out around January.”

Iwaizumi is all hunched up on himself again, body a mess of tense lines and random fidgeting. He bows low, then scurries off the stage, with none of the artistic grace of his earlier movements.

Oikawa watches him disappear into the curtains, keeps his gaze there even after all the other auditions. He comes back to himself when his sister jabs a sharp elbow into his side, clapping for Nobuo’s performance. Oikawa dazedly claps as well, but the memory of a boy dancing like the music is woven into his very soul is still burned into his eyes.

He never finds out what happened to him, even with his inexplicable ability to track people down on social media, there is no trace of an Iwaizumi Hajime anywhere.

The day the results for those accepted in Tamabi’s next term is made public, he flies over to the website, and the disappointment is strangely potent, oddly heartbreaking, when he browses the entire list once, twice, thrice, only to realize that Iwaizumi Hajime didn’t make it.

Oikawa Tooru has always known that the world is rarely ever fair, but this is the first time he’s ever resented that fact this much.

 

-

 

 **29 JANUARY 2016**  
**22:28**

He’s pleasantly buzzed. There’s a pretty boy on his lap and a drink in his hand and honestly, for a while it’s enough to calm his edged nerves.

This isn’t his first time in Seijou, but it’s his first time to go alone, spurred on by the stress of work, his father’s passive-aggressive demands, the hovering eventuality of being married off like his older siblings.

He’s tired. He’s just so fucking tired.

His boy for the night whines cutely, saying something or another about how he isn’t listening, and Oikawa indulges him with another kiss, forcing his tongue in until he’s made to bend back, threatening to fall to the floor if not for Oikawa’s steadying grip on his shoulders. He’s small. Pliant. Would probably feel so good writhing underneath him in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but Oikawa really isn’t in the mood for sex. Kissing is good. Getting drunk off his ass is good. Temporarily forgetting is good.

The music is slow tonight. Sensual. The atmosphere smoky and almost romantic. From the edge of his vision he can see the approach of feet. He looks up at the stage and it takes a while for his vision to unblur, for his gaze to penetrate past the too-bright lights and the haze of smoke surrounding the performer.

And when it does, Oikawa almost feels like he's been slapped across the face.

The spotlights blink for effect, and the performer moves with it, teasing flashes of motion in the brief light.

It’s a face he hasn’t seen in years, but has haunted the edge of his memory in all that time.

_Iwaizumi Hajime_

He’d held out hope. There are a dozen art schools in Tokyo, maybe a hundred in the whole country. He’d hoped that if Tamabi didn’t recognize Iwaizumi’s talent then maybe some other school did, or that he even managed to land himself in a school in Europe. In America.

Oikawa tries to keep his breathing even. The boy in his lap squirms, tugs where his hands are interlaced behind his neck, but the sensations are lost on Oikawa, too absorbed on the figure on stage, body still graceful. Still lithe. Still dancing with the same passion he exhibited on the stage Oikawa first saw him on, even though this stage is much too small for him, much too crass than he possibly deserves.

The music slows to a stop, and it’s déjà vu, how Iwaizumi slides to the floor, strikes a pose just as the last beat stutters into silence. Oikawa used to picture Iwaizumi’s performances ending with a shower of roses upon a stage. Instead, this one ends with the flash of bills waved high in the air, lewd cheers and invasive touches when Iwaizumi got close enough.

He’s not ready for when Iwaizumi’s gaze finally lands on him, for when that body crawls under the aqua lights to kneel before him, finger hooking into his tie and pulling him close.

“Hi baby.” he greets, low and husky. “Got anything for me?”

And if the sight of him, the feel of him wasn’t enough, then his voice just cements his identity. The trace of his dialect is fainter, but still there. The same muffled vowels and soft consonants and the slight gruffness in his tone.

He’s much more confident now. None of the trembling nervousness from when he stood before a panel of five people with the power to decide his future. Now, he’s in control. And he damn well knows it.

It’s pathetic to acknowledge, but he’s dreamed of meeting Iwaizumi before. Looking up at him on stage. Knocking on the door of a dressing room with a bouquet heavy in the cradle of his right arm.

He’d imagined a thousand scenarios and stories. But not this. Never like this.

 _What happened to you?_ he wants to ask. _Why did this happen to you?_

But he doesn’t. He can’t risk him running off, can’t risk him disappearing from his life a second time.

Instead, he smirks, leans in close like he’s about to kiss him. Iwaizumi draws back, slight shock in his eyes, face hardening in barely-concealed irritation. Oikawa doesn’t get any closer than that, just shoves a generous wad of bills into his bra, then leans back.

His facial expressions don’t need practice. It’s easy enough to morph his concern and confusion into something darker, something more lecherous.

“What does that get me, sweetheart?”

Iwaizumi clearly hasn’t been here long enough. His ability to mask his real emotions still needs work. His distaste for Oikawa is clear in the downturn of his lips, but it’s brief, and soon he’s back to smiling. Back to playing coy, glancing at Oikawa from under mascara-laden lashes.

“Meet me in the back.” he whispers, winks, and lets go of Oikawa’s tie.

 

-

 

 **21 APRIL 2016**  
**22:38**

People would be surprised to know exactly how much one can discover about a person just by having sex with them.

Even for a quick fuck, a meaningless grind in a dirty cubicle, there’s something about the sheer rawness of the act that exposes a person’s deepest, darkest desires, their most fervent needs, no matter how many layers of illusions they smear upon the surface.

Oikawa learns so, so much in all those nights spent in Iwaizumi’s dressing room. He learns that Iwaizumi is dented, scuffed at the edges and dulled at the surface, but his spirit burns as bright as ever. Everytime he pushes Oikawa down he does it with vigor, with the confidence of someone in control. Even when he lies squirming under Oikawa’s body he’s still very clearly calling the shots, letting Oikawa do as he pleases only so long as it’s good for him too.

Oikawa remembers their little tiff a month ago, had wrinkled his nose at Iwaizumi’s flippant but brutally honest _I like sex. I’m good at it. I earn seventy thousand yen on a good night_ , spat at him after his latest attempt at baiting Iwaizumi out of this club, out of this life.

He didn’t understand then and he doesn’t understand now. How Iwaizumi can possibly be happy here, how Iwaizumi can claim to not want to be on a better stage, in front of a bigger audience, where he was always meant to shine.

But still, even with the irritation that wells up at the idea, he can’t help but find beauty in how Iwaizumi struggles.

Oikawa has always been attracted to strength. To determination. To people with their scars and their calloused heels and hands and the deep cracks in their souls. To people who never broke, no matter how many times the world tries to shatter them.

If he thought he fell in love with him that day on that stage five years ago, then he’s sure of it now, the pull of his soul stronger now that he has Iwaizumi in his arms, now that he’s no longer this enigma that Oikawa’s mind created to fill in the void after their not-quite meeting.

“Excuse me. Oikawa-san?”

He looks up, thoughts crumbling into empty air, quirks a polite smile at the silver-haired boy bowing before him. Oh, this one’s new. God, where does this club keep getting these cuties?

“Yes, gorgeous?” he flirts easily, taking a bit of satisfaction in how prettily this one blushes.

“Iwaizumi-san is ready for you now.” he says, after a brief giggle daintily hidden behind a hand. Oikawa follows him along, even though he knows by heart the way to Iwaizumi’s dressing room, keeping his gaze on the dangerously low cut of his shorts.

Almost too soon, they reach their destination, and the boy waves goodbye, coyly looking over his shoulder one last time before walking off. He’s elegantly-built, blessed with long, lean legs and just the right amount of softness to appeal to those with a more feminine taste.

He snaps back into himself and clears his throat, adjusts his collar a bit (won’t do to not look his best for his favorite) and swings the door open with a melodious _Iwa-chaaaaan~_

“What’s that?” Iwaizumi immediately asks, completely flat, gaze settled on the suede box in his hand.

“A gift!” Oikawa answers, already too used to this lack of enthusiasm to be deterred, pulling back the lid with a proud flourish.

It’s nothing even too intricate. A circular emerald set in a gold frame. If he had it his way it’d be bigger than a 500-yen coin but he’s learned fairly quickly that Iwaizumi’s more likely to wear something if it’s not too big, the jewels not weighing him down when he dances.

Sadly, Iwaizumi’s frown deepens at the sight of it. Oikawa knows Iwaizumi’s clients spoil him, but for some reason Iwaizumi’s been reluctant to accept any of his gifts lately. That won’t do.

It takes a bit of a chase and a lot of shouting and a fair amount of applying the martial arts training Oikawa received as a child, but in the end he succeeds in getting the necklace round Iwaizumi’s neck, clipping the latch shut under the rainstorm of death threats he screams from where he’s pinned under Oikawa’s weight.

Oikawa turns him around, admires the sparkle of an artfully-cut emerald. It matches his eyes so well, the gold carved around the stone accenting the warm undertones of his skin.

“You look stunning.” Oikawa whispers. Not that he needs expensive jewelry to look stunning, but Oikawa can’t deny the effect it lends on Iwaizumi’s visage.

“You don’t have to keep buying me expensive stuff.” Iwaizumi mumbles, chin tucked against his chest.

“It’s my money and I do what I want with it.” Oikawa answers primly, reaching over to stroke the warm metal, smiling at how Iwaizumi shivers when he traces over his neck. “And all your other clients buy you expensive stuff. Why am I suddenly not allowed? No fair, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi squeals when he presses his lips to the hollow of his collarbones, blows a raspberry on the sunken skin. The spend the next few minutes like that: laughing, playful tickles exchanged between pretend-pushes and pulls that slowly fade out into soft giggles and pants.

He nuzzles Iwaizumi’s chest, his fishnet shirt ticking his nose. Iwaizumi huffs and pinches his ears, thumbs tracing the lobe.

“Oikawa…” Iwaizumi says, and the tone of it gets his attention immediately, his head jerking up like a summoned pup, “can I…can I tell you something?”

“You already did though. Ack! I kid! I kid! Ow, Iwa-chaaaan—”

He grabs Iwaizumi’s wrists, his larger hands easily wrapping around thin bones, trying to dislodge his monstrous grip from his hair. He pouts but Iwaizumi doesn’t meet his gaze, turning to the right, nuzzling more of his face into the pillow.

“Please don’t…If I end up getting ahead of myself could you promise to just...I dunno forget it or something?”

Iwaizumi stutters, glances left, then right again, a habit Oikawa catalogues as something he does when he’s nervous, when he feels trapped.

He brings a hand up, reassures Iwaizumi with the brush of his knuckles over soft skin.

“It’s okay, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa cups his cheek, runs a thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “Go on. What is it?”

Iwaizumi’s lips thin out. He’s so clearly out of his element, so unlike how he is all the time that Oikawa is thrown off for a moment. He probably never had to initiate personal talk in this line of work, and now that he doesn’t have the firm backbone of experience he’s floundering like a fish on land, completely lost.

“You know…” he starts, chokes up, ducks his head even lower until all Oikawa can see is the nest of spikes on his head. “You know I can’t…It’s not just because you’re my client. I’m just not…in the right place for this, for what you want from me—”

“What do you think I want, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks gently, slowly, as if Iwaizumi will bolt with the wrong words. He tilts his head up by the chin, ignoring the slight resistance, because he needs to see Iwaizumi’s face. Needs to know.

Iwaizumi is a little pale, a little drawn, gaze darting at everything and nothing at once. He’s trying to pull his head from Oikawa’s grip, trying to run away, get as much space between them as possible, but Oikawa hooks a hand on his waist and keeps him there.

“I want you happy.” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi stills, shocked silent. “I want you happy and spoiled and taken care of and I never want you thinking that I’m doing all this hoping to collect my due someday.”

He strokes the dip of Iwaizumi’s waist, feels his heartbeat thunder beneath his chest. “That’s…that’s kinda the thing about love. You’re never supposed to expect anything in return.”

Iwaizumi turns to him then, a crease of confusion between his brows. He stays, at least, and lets Oikawa’s hands hover over him, flexing restlessly.

“I love you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa continues, nervous and unsure in ways he hasn’t quite felt before, “not in the, I-wanna-adopt-a-dog-get-married-have-kids-with-you-someday kind. Just…I love being with you. Just like this. Even if sex isn’t part of it. Just talking and laughing and holding you until the sun comes up.”

Iwaizumi’s breath hitches and stutters, like he’s trying to figure out how to breathe properly.

“Since when?” Iwaizumi chokes. He looks strange. He looks like he’s about to cry and laugh at the same time and Oikawa doesn’t know what to do. “Why _me_?”

 _A long time ago._ he thinks, but doesn’t say. _When I saw you on stage for the first time you made me believe in things I never thought I’d believe in._

He doesn’t say because he doesn’t think words can do the depth and breadth of his reasons any justice. Because all he has are flowery words and abstractions and that will never convince Iwaizumi. Instead he rubs their noses together, coaxes Iwaizumi’s head back up and pecks him. Just a quick kiss.

Iwaizumi’s eyes are downcast, face still pale and drawn and a mix of emotions Oikawa has never seen on him before. It makes a lump grow in Oikawa’s throat, pushes tears to the forefront of his eyes. His hands retreat, skims the sheets constituting the sudden gap between them.

“Do you want me to leave?”

The _no_ is said so quickly Oikawa almost thinks he imagined it, if not for the sudden grip around his waist, tight as a vice; the body suddenly tugging him back, pulling him into the circle of Iwaizumi’s arms.

“Don’t leave.” Iwaizumi says. Whispers, more like. “I don’t…I don’t really get it…yet…” he’s stumbling over his words, plucking them out of the brambles of his mind, “but I know I don’t want you to leave.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, shuts it, clears his throat and brings a hand up between Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades, massaging a reassuring rhythm onto his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Oikawa says, laughing a tad bitterly. “Did I make this weird?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. He’s close enough that Oikawa can feel his eyelashes drag over his skin. “I think…I think you made it okay, actually. But…Oikawa, I really don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to.” Oikawa cuts off, not unkindly. He holds Iwaizumi a little tighter, adjust so that he fits a little more nicely in his arms. “Just…you knowing is enough. _This_ is enough.”

Iwaizumi’s grip spasms, his fingertips digging into his skin almost painfully, but then he sags. Something wet and warm collects in the space between Iwaizumi’s face and his shoulders, slides all the way down to the pillows. Oikawa doesn’t mention it, but he pulls Iwaizumi closer, close enough to smother the little hiccups shaking his frame, close enough to say _I’m here, it’s okay_ without having to say a single word.

They wake up hours later not even realizing they fell asleep, and Oikawa laughs, waves off Iwaizumi’s concerns about the bill with a kiss right on his mouth.

He makes a face at his breath though, and Iwaizumi smacks him upside the head, blushing scarlet and muttering something about _as if yours is any better, Shittykawa_.

(Though he doesn’t move away when Oikawa leans in for another kiss. And another. And another.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was really meant to be on time but Oikawa apparently had a lot to say
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/158227322266/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-7-interlude-oikawa) for chapter 7


	8. Interlude IV - Hanamaki Takahiro

**03 JULY 2016**  
**05:19**

Iwaizumi hadn’t replied to their texts, hadn’t called despite the 20 or so missed calls he and Matsukawa left between them. Then again, Hanamaki hadn’t expected him to.

The words exchanged little more than an hour ago still makes his stomach churn. The memories weighing down in the atmosphere of the apartment like a shroud.

It hadn’t been worth it. Seeing Iwaizumi turn up in his own apartment with his phone ringing obnoxiously in his pocket, his shock morphing to irritation then to anger—it hadn’t been worth the days Hanamaki and Matsukawa spent wondering if Iwaizumi was alright. If he was even _alive_.

The anger had overtaken Hanamaki like a tsunami, eating away the spark of relief. He’d been shouting before he even knew it, before Iwaizumi could even finish his _what are you doing here_. He’d been so ready to throw a fist, had Matsukawa not beaten him to it.

It didn’t hurt then, with the self-righteousness and pride and _I was right he was wrong_ licking at the edges of his consciousness. But the minutes wear on. His fires slowly die out, and all he’s left with are the sting of his own barbed words— _You think this is still worth your dream, Hajime? Spreading your legs for anyone who throws you money? All because you don’t wanna admit your parents were_ right _?_ —and a throat raw from screaming.

Hanamaki doesn’t want to justify any of it. But he’d been so worried. He and Matsukawa both. And with the fucking news going crazy lately about people getting assaulted in the streets, he’d thought the worst, especially since Iwaizumi hadn’t answered or called at all in three days.

(And Hanamaki doesn’t believe in signs, or fate, or superstition. Not really. But he’d looked up last Friday on his commute home and saw _dead in an alley_ in the quick flash of the evening news playing from the window of an appliance store and—)

God. He’d been so fucking terrified.

Especially so when he’d opened Iwaizumi’s door, opened it to find an empty house at 3AM when usually Iwaizumi would’ve been home at 2.

The memory of the terror he felt at the sight of a dark, empty apartment is only a dull ache now, compared to the ice-cold chill that still grips him to the core, but it still makes him feel nauseous.

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I fucked up.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

He turns to look at his partner, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. He’s staring, dead-eyed, at the dust motes floating in the sunrise filtering past the curtains. His hands are shaking. The hand he struck Iwaizumi with held out like it’s diseased, like he’s a hair away from chopping it right off and tossing it out the window. Hanamaki wants to comfort him but he knows any form of touch won’t be welcome right now. Matsukawa doesn’t trust himself after a burst of violence, doesn’t trust himself to not hurt the next person who goes near him, his circular, toxic thoughts leading him into this headspace that not even Hanamaki can pull him out from.

So instead, Hanamaki stands, hobbles up on toothpick legs and makes his way to the kitchen.

He’s been here enough times that he knows where everything is. He fills the electric kettle up and plugs it in, finds the tea in the same place Iwaizumi keeps it all the time, notes that it’s heftier now. Probably a new pack.

He makes tea. Loses himself in the high tinkling of steel against ceramic, of the soft bubbling of water as he sprinkles the loose leaves and buds into the strainer.

Cooking has always calmed him. Kept his hands and mind busier than working out or punching dummies and bags; the smell of aromatics frying on the stove, of vanilla and sugar baking away in the warmth of the oven clearing his mind like a salve.

He remembers his love for cooking blooming as early as four years old. He remembers watching by the kitchen’s doorway as his mother bustled around the small space, all sorts of smells and sounds erupting in a pleasant orchestra of sensation. She’d taught him to cook the moment he finally grew tall enough to look past the counter, patiently guiding his clumsy hands around knives and ladles and hand mixers. He’d watched his parents’ proud smiles the first time he presented his dish to the table, a pot of curry he’d made completely on his own, and since then, he’d associated the act with comfort, with happiness, with smiles and compliments and the sleepy contentment that comes from a full stomach.

The kettle clicks, whistles a little where the air escapes the triangular lip. He slowly lifts it out and pours it over the strainer, watches the water go dark as it passes through.

He peeks outside while waiting for the tea to steep, frowns at the haze of clouds in the cold morning. Iwaizumi didn’t even bring a jacket.

In the end, he might’ve let the tea sit too long. Not like it matters. Matsukawa isn’t all that picky. He pours out the tea and it hits him only when he’s finished. He’d poured out three cups of tea.

“Issei.” he calls out hollowly. Matsukawa doesn’t look up. “Issei, drink?”

Matsukawa doesn’t move either, so Hanamaki brings him his mug—white with green polkadots— while his other hand curled around his own—black with _FINE_ printed in bold white—the very same ones Iwaizumi always uses to serve them drinks.

Iwaizumi always buys into these odd little habits, like always insisting that Hanamaki use matching chopsticks, even though Hanamaki doesn’t see what could possibly go wrong if one chopstick is yellow and the other is white. They used to argue about it a lot, Hanamaki always purposefully going for mismatching chopsticks when they ate together just to rile him up, just to piss him off, just to tease him for that angry little flush on his cheeks.

They used to argue a lot. But it never ended like this. Not with cold apartments and silence and three mugs of tea for only two people.

Matsukawa doesn’t drink it, but Hanamaki can see how he breathes a little deeper, takes in the scent and the warmth to calm himself down. His hands still haven’t stopped shaking, but at least he lets Hanamaki hold him now, brush his thumbs over the skin of his knuckles and lay kisses there.

They stay there for god knows how long. Waiting, maybe, for Iwaizumi to come back. So they can apologize. So they can fix it.

Hanamaki knows it’s not going to happen. Not now, not anytime soon even, with how stubborn Iwaizumi is. Iwaizumi will brave the snow in nothing but a shirt if he doesn’t want to see them.

“We should…” Matsukawa finally says, voice trembling, but stable, a little bit louder now, “should probably go. He won’t want to see us. Not yet.”

Hanamaki doesn’t disagree. He stands and washes their mugs in the sink and upturns them on the rack. The third mug is still steaming, hot to the touch as Hanamaki takes it, sets it on the table.

He follows Matsukawa out, Iwaizumi’s keys still heavy in his pocket.

 

-

 

**27 JANUARY 2010**  
**11:04**

Iwaizumi’s never been much of a crier.

It’s breaching six years that they’ve known each other, but this is the first time Hanamaki’s ever seen this: Iwaizumi’s eyes swollen, shoulders bent with disappointment, looking so ready to fall to his knees and crumble where he stands. Once the shock whittles down, Hanamaki wastes no time swaddling him in thick comforters, laying him down on the couch and running up and down the stairs with his arms piled high with linens, preparing to set up the most badass blanket fort known to man.

He doesn’t find out why until he subtly picks up his phone, keeping his hand heavy on Iwaizumi’s head as he strokes his hair back, coos at him to keep him distracted. He checks Tamabi’s website and pulls up the list of accepted students for the next term, and when _Ishida_ is immediately followed by _Iwata_ he turns his head and plants a long, slow kiss on Iwaizumi’s forehead, murmurs _I’m sorry_ onto his skin.

Matsukawa drops in just a few minutes later, and now he has an arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulders (or at least…the general area of his shoulders. Hanamaki can’t really tell under that Iwaizumi buritto), keeping him close, other hand half-buried in a bowl of popcorn. _Godzilla_ (the original, of course) blasts from the 49-inch flat screen TV in all its HD, surround-sound glory, and Hanamaki spares a moment to pat himself on the back for this one. Iwaizumi will definitely be feeling better in no time.

Except he doesn’t. The movie’s credits roll in all he’s still sniffling, still miserable and red-eyed and Hanamaki can’t take it anymore.

“Hajime.” Hanamaki groans, tugging back the blanket to expose more of Iwaizumi’s face. “Hey, come on, it’s not like it’s the end of the world. You auditioned in a bunch of other schools, right? Tamabi isn’t even the best out there.”

“And they’re stupid enough to not recognize your talent. That’s how you know they suck as an institution.” Matsukawa chirps in, reaches down with a popcorn pinched between two fingers that he presses against Iwaizumi’s lips. Morosely, he eats it, but still doesn’t speak.

Hanamaki knows Iwaizumi auditioned for three other schools, at least. Remembers the entire month Iwaizumi was away, shipped off to Tokyo on a shinkansen, off to auditions and applications and interviews that he starved himself and worked part-time jobs to pay for, because his own parents refused to acknowledge his dream.

“Don’t worry.” Matsukawa coos, kisses just above Iwaizumi’s ear. “If it doesn’t work out, you can live with us.”

Hanamaki looks up in alarm, around the same time Iwaizumi does, blinking green eyes in confusion as they widen marginally.

“You—”

“Taka’s parents paid off the down as a graduation gift. We signed the lease two days ago.” Matsukawa smiles, the rare kind with teeth and a flash of his gums. The same smile he had on when Hanamaki shouted a resounding _yes_ in response to his confession from the school rooftop. “We wanted to wait to tell you—”

Matsukawa stops dead here, and Hanamaki winces. They had wanted to wait until Iwaizumi got his Tamabi results. He’d imagined this would go so much differently, the three of them happy and rushing out of Hanamaki’s house in a euphoric cheer to celebrate.

But Iwaizumi sits up straighter before Hanamaki can say something, or hit Matsukawa over the head. In the next second he’s suddenly wrapped up in toned arms, cheek squished against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the fabric conditioner that stuck to his skin after the last two hours curled up in Hanamaki’s sheets.

“I’m happy for you.” Iwaizumi whispers, holding both of them close, so sincere and genuinely _thrilled_ that Hanamaki feels his heart break just a little bit more for him.

It’s almost funny how quickly he cheered up, just by hearing happy news about someone else. He’s disappointed in himself but he’s happy for them and that always seems to trump Iwaizumi’s self-deprecation. Always puts a smile on his face easier than his own achievements do.

It’ll be fine, Hanamaki thinks, because if anyone deserves this it’s Iwaizumi. Hardworking, determined, passionate Iwaizumi. The world couldn’t give him supportive parents, couldn’t give him a loving home. Certainly it could give him _this_.

He’ll be fine.

 

-

 

**08 JANUARY 2016**  
**11:32**

“What the fuck?” are Hanamaki’s first words, shattering the silence like glass against the wall. “What the actual fuck, Hajime?”

He’s grateful Iwaizumi insisted they have brunch in his new apartment, instead of out at that café that serves Hanamaki’s favorite cream puffs. He doesn’t think he’d be able to keep this in, even out in public.

“Taka, please—”

“Don’t you use that tone on me.” Hanamaki hisses. He’s already standing up. Matsukawa still hasn’t said a thing. Why hasn’t he said a thing. “Don’t you fucking imply that I’m being unreasonable here—”

“You’re not.” Iwaizumi insists, voice thin. “I know how it sounds but I just want you to please _let me finish_ before saying anything else.”

Hanamaki’s breath stills in his lungs, wanting to calm down but unable to get over the shock of how the happiness of _I got a job_ so quickly changed to white-hot disbelief at _I work at a strip club_.

Suddenly there’s a hand on his wrist, pulling him back down to his seat. Numbly, he obeys. Sags back down to the backrest and lets the plush fabric support him.

Dimly, he looks around the apartment. It’s small, sure, but it’s good. Well-furnished and with enough personality to link Iwaizumi as the owner. He’d been confused at the location, silently confused as to why Iwaizumi picked an apartment just three blocks from the red light district, but now the real reason makes him dizzy.

Iwaizumi still hasn’t resumed his story. His hands are shaking but his back is ramrod straight and his chin is clenched tight, eyes bright with defiance.

“Do your parents know?” Matsukawa pipes up, completely out of nowhere, his expression not shifting in the slightest.

Iwaizumi twitches, and he lowers his head for the first time since this talk started.

“I don’t think I have those anymore.”

Another pulse of adrenaline nearly stops Hanamaki’s heart, and for a completely different reason now. Beside him, Matsukawa startles too, jaw falling slack.

“It’s fine.” Iwaizumi says, looking up. But it’s not. It’s _not_. “Guess if we’re being honest I never really had those to begin with, eh?”

Iwaizumi’s smiling, but it’s dry and bitter and so pained that anything and everything Hanamaki had planned to say whittles away in his throat. His joints unlock, the urge to reach out and hold Iwaizumi coming back full-force, and he gives in to it.

He stands again, but all he does is cross the table over to the side where Iwaizumi’s sitting, looking up at him cautiously even as he plops down beside him.

It hurts a little, maybe, when he opens his arms and Iwaizumi flinches, but he lets it slide, offers up his arms a little more insistently until Iwaizumi realizes. Hesitates. Then slowly crawls into his space, curls against him and lets him tuck his chin over his spiky hair.

Not even five seconds later Matsukawa sidles up behind Iwaizumi, noisily so, just to alert him of his intentions, and lines his torso over his slouched back, nuzzling into the back of his head and winding both arms around his waist.

Hanamaki breathes in, takes in the mild, clean scent of Iwaizumi’s shampoo, the one he never changed since high school. Matsukawa shuffles closer and suddenly there’s a hint of coconut in his next inhale.

God, when was the last time they did this?

“I’m not…” Iwaizumi says, his voice muffled in the wool of Hanamaki’s sweater. His struggles are stilted, like he’s fighting between wanting to let go and wanting to snuggle deeper. “I’d understand if you don’t want to be seen with me…because of what I do—”

“Hey.” Matsukawa says, nipping on Iwaizumi’s neck. “Don’t be stupid.”

Hanamaki combs Iwaizumi’s hair back, ostensibly to neaten it out, but more so to hide the shaking in his fingers. “Hajime, you don’t have to do this. Between Issei and I we can support you for a few weeks. You can keep looking—”

“Taka.” Iwaizumi interrupts, pushing back now, looking up at him. “Please understand that I’m…I’ve been doing this for just over two months now.” Hanamaki’s heart drops like a stone, and just barely halts the _why didn’t you tell us_ because his reaction earlier just justified any and all of Iwaizumi’s reasons.

“I’m in a good place. A _really_ good place.” Iwaizumi finishes, gaze hardening, shoulders squaring, and Hanamaki knows that he isn’t just talking about his workplace.

Iwaizumi looks…he looks content. Flushed with a happiness that lends a healthy pallor to his skin. He looks nothing like the Iwaizumi that lived with them for a little while, nothing like the Iwaizumi who lived on his own, in that rickety one-room unit with no heating and a shared bathroom down the hall, nothing like the Iwaizumi who tried to find a trace of his dream in the little studios looking for instructors, or outside Sendai station where he busked with ragtag dance crews.

And now he’d found it. Dear god he’d found it by dancing on tables for leery men who probably couldn’t even get it up anymore, who couldn’t find anything better to do with their money so they wave it at him just so he can shake his ass for them, show off more of his skin, so he can crawl onto their laps and say and call them whatever they want him to.

Honestly, the thought makes him want to vomit.

“I’m not asking you to accept it.” Iwaizumi says, hands squeezing into the loose fabric of his trousers. “I’m just…hoping…you don’t ask me to stop. Or ask me to choose.”

“We won’t.” Matsukawa quickly reassures, hooking his chin over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “But you can’t expect us to be okay with this. You work in Kokubuncho. Fuck, even _I’m_ scared to walk around that place in broad daylight.”

“I carry a weapon when I walk around.”

“Still. You drink on the job.” Hanamaki counters.

“Not a _lot_.”

Hanamaki sags in exasperation, groans as he pulls Iwaizumi close and buries his face in Iwaizumi’s hair. God, the thought of it—of _Iwaizumi_ doing _that_ every night, then walking the streets of the most dangerous district in Sendai at fuck o’clock in the morning…

“Can you at least promise to text us when you’re home? Just…to reassure us, I guess.” he says, relents, and it all comes out in one heavy sigh.

He feels Iwaizumi nod under him. “That’s fair.”

They settle back into silence, tense and awkward in the way it’s never been between the three of them.

Hanamaki wonders how else this new revelation is going to change them.

 

-

 

**09 JULY 2016**  
**23:09**

Hanamaki slots the key into the lock, turns twice until the cylinder draws back in all its entirety, then opens the door.

He turns on the light, he shuffles out of his shoes, Matsukawa following behind on a much quieter pace. The clock on the wall ticks fifty minutes to midnight.

He didn’t text at all this week, and Iwaizumi didn’t either, but there are plates on the drying rack, still wet, slippers on the foyer that were haphazardly kicked off before the owner stepped into a pair of outdoor shoes (Matsukawa slides those over to the side, out of the way), the air light with a general atmosphere of a place well-lived in.

His movements are heavy as he sets down the paper bags on the counter, pulling out plastic containers and ingredients. Matsukawa is already starting up on the rice beside him, popping into the corner of his vision with a pot of rice grains, bringing them under the stream of the faucet to wash.

Hanamaki dries out the tofu and chops vegetables, letting the rhythmic sound of steel thumping wood calm his nerves. Matsukawa’s heating up the miso soup on the stove, the other unlit range holding a pot of oil for frying. Hanamaki looks up at the clock again, hopes Iwaizumi comes home in time today. Agedashi tofu’s no good when it’s sat out too long.

It’s only a little later, only a little less than fifteen minutes, when the faint sound of the lock sliding open interrupts the sounds of the kitchen, and Hanamaki almost doesn’t mind it, almost waves it off as a product of his mounting anxiety, but then the door creaks open, and Hanamaki nearly drops the knife in shock when he looks up and sees Iwaizumi standing in the doorway.

The lights give them away, if not the smell of cooked rice and miso soup. Iwaizumi’s expression is already guarded as he closes the door behind him, looking at them like they’re hyenas about to pounce.

It’s almost like Hanamaki’s wrenched back in time, back to that early morning barely a week ago where they stood here and Iwaizumi stood there, only this time Iwaizumi looks more tired than anything, shoulders sagging in a weighted slump.

“Hajime.” Hanamaki starts, carefully cracking the ice before it settles over all of them. “Don’t you have work?”

Iwaizumi tenses even more. His head drops down, gaze darting left, then right.

“I got off early.”

And here Hanamaki feels anxiety clutch at his heart, eyes immediately darting across Iwaizumi’s form searching for anything off, any sign of an injury. He sets the knife down on the counter and steps closer, strides growing more confident when Iwaizumi doesn’t step back.

“Did something happen?”

Iwaizumi’s tongue peeks out, nervously wetting his lip, gnawing on the bottom one.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, instead of answering the question. Oldest defense mechanism in the book, and if Hanamaki’s mental alarms weren’t ringing before then they were blaring like hell now.

“We…” Hanamaki glances at Matsukawa. For support. He’d always been better, more apt to deal with delicate situations.

Matsukawa, true to form, says nothing. But he reaches into his pocket and pulls out three slips of paper, printed thin and colorful, the kanji and logo for a famous onsen emblazoned on the front in red ink.

Iwaizumi’s lips, once set in a thin line, part slightly at the sight of it, staring at it like he’s not even sure if what he’s seeing is real.

“You can say no.” Matsukawa says, voice rumbling deep but calming, reassuring. “We’ll understand if you don’t want to come with us but…” he swallows, shuffles his feet like a scolded child, “we wanted to apologize.”

Hanamaki isn’t sure what happens, exactly, but Iwaizumi’s shocked still, staring at the paper in Matsukawa’s hand with a mix of too many emotions for Hanamaki to catalogue, and in the next breath he’s suddenly in motion, crashing into them, sending Hanamaki stumbling back and nearly falling, if his leg hadn’t backed up to support him in time.

He feels like the breath’s been punched out of him, leaving him wheezing like he’d just run a fucking marathon but Matsukawa only looks down, eyes as wide as Hanamaki’s ever seen them.

“Hajime? Hey—”

He’s a trembling mess, a heavy deadweight against Hanamaki’s body and the three of them end up on the floor, limbs everywhere and nowhere to put them, Iwaizumi wiggling on to their laps until Matsukawa wraps an arm around him, settling him down.

Instinct takes hold before anything does, because this—Iwaizumi in his arms needing comfort, needing reassurance, needing to be held—this he knows how to deal with. He wraps an arm around his back, above where Matsukawa’s arm already rests, kisses Iwaizumi’s spiky hair. It smells of smoke, of sweat, of expensive, woodsy perfume but also of something mild, something clean, smells like the shampoo he never bothered to change since high school.

Iwaizumi doesn’t cry. Doesn’t sniffle or sob, but he buries his face in the junction of their shoulders and just breathes. Holds them tighter and they hold him right back, and Iwaizumi fits in their arms as neatly as he always has.

Hanamaki almost doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t even know how long they spent just sitting there curled up in each other’s warmth, but someone’s stomach rumbles, practically an angry growl. He glances at Matsukawa, and he shakes his head, identifying the culprit.

“Come on.” Hanamaki pats Iwaizumi’s biceps until he lets go, sits back down on the floor. “Up. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head miserably, keeping his head down, swiping his sleeve over his face. Hanamaki clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“How are we supposed to have a fair arm wrestling competition if you keep starving yourself?” he scolds, reaching up to smack him over the head. Iwaizumi looks up at him them, pouting with all the maturity of a five-year old, still with the trace of tears on his cheeks, a red-rimmed gaze.

“Bet I could still beat you though.”

 _Ah. There he is._ Hanamaki’s heart soars, relief spreading through him and manifesting in a small, fond smile. _There’s our Hajime._

“Nice try, asshole.” he smacks Iwaizumi’s head again, though he dodges it this time, springing to his feet. “Come on. We’re making your favorite.”

He doesn’t realize he’d held out his hand to Iwaizumi until he grabs hold of it, swinging lightly on their short way to the kitchen, doesn’t let go and Hanamaki doesn’t make him, even when it’s a comical struggle trying to cube the tofu perfectly with just one hand. Matsukawa laughs, but all he does is wrap arms around Iwaizumi’s waist and cling like a baby panda while Hanamaki rolls the tofu in potato starch and dumps the pieces in the hot oil.

He takes the excess starch and dusts their useless faces with it as revenge, and the whole apartment erupts with sounds of laughter and playfighting, even as the clock strikes midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindaichi's back w some pain up for next week. Also Kunimi. Y'all think he's got a good role in this one? We'll see.
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/158513636451/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-8-interlude) for chapter 8


	9. still, you fill up my days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lateness of this chapter, though if you follow me on tumblr you probably already anticipated it. Still, for those who didn't know, I'm sorry! *bows*

**09 JULY 2016**  
**23:01**

Kindaichi thought he already knew what it’s like to sleep with a broken heart.

He’d done it before. Spent so many nights under the lone comfort of his covers, trying to drown out the sounds of his parents arguing, holding the side of his face where it throbbed, where a bruise was just beginning to blossom to the surface. He thought he’d reached the pinnacle of pain, but this hurts so, so much worse than anything he’d ever felt before.

With his parents, it was never about love. It was about control. It was about pride. It was about forcing him into a mold and locking him in, until the curves and lines of his body took the exact shape of their dreams, their vision of a perfect son.

It was never about love. Which is why it barely even stung when he took the blade and severed the rusted chains of obligation and filial piety that kept him anchored in that wretched house, jumping out the window and into the uncertainty of the night with all the intent of never looking back.

But Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi smiled at him. Called him _perfect_ and _good_ and _baby_ , had cradled him with such gentle, practiced hands. Kissed him like he’d never been kissed. Kissed him like he loved him.

In Iwaizumi, he’d found the love he’d always wanted. And now he doesn’t even know if any of it was real.

And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he deserves this pain for being so gullible, for not listening. Maybe all this time Iwaizumi was nothing but a great actor and all of this was just a game—

His bed creaks, shifts and rolls as the weight of another person climbs up on it. His head turns, slowly, and Kunimi is right there, climbing beneath his blanket and tucking his hand beneath the pillow he brought with him. He doesn’t mention the tears, only reaches out and pushes back his hair from his damp forehead, cheeks, the hem of his sleeves soft on his burning skin.

“Goodnight, Yuu.” he whispers, then rests his hand between them, curled open and inviting, and Kindaichi wastes no time in slipping his fingers in the spaces between Kunimi’s. Holds tight.

He closes his eyes, falls asleep to the rhythmic brush of Kunimi’s thumb over his knuckles, and dreams of better days.

 

-

 

**10 JULY 2016**  
**16:24**

He hasn’t done it in a while. Hasn’t done it in weeks. But his throat itches and his fingers twitch and when he opens his nightstand drawer there is a spare packet there, a box of matches bouncing against the wood and he takes it as a sign.

He lights himself a cigarette, coughs on the first exhale. And second. But he keeps going. Keeps breathing in the poison until the haze of smoke settles over his room, bathing him in the familiar scent of burning aromatics. Until the taste of tar weighs heavier on his tongue. He keeps going until his nerves numb and unwind, and he doesn’t even realize he’s finished the entire pack until Kunimi opens the door, gasps, then promptly hunches over in a mess of coughs.

“Shit.” Kindaichi hisses, puts out what’s left of his last cigarette on the overflowing ashtray, clambers over to Kunimi, closing the door behind him and patting his best friend’s back, leading him over to the kitchen and pouring them both a glass of water.

“Sorry.” he mutters, head low in shame. “Forgot to turn on the vent.”

Kunimi spares him an irritated glance above the glass he’s chugging down. He slams it down on the table, still glaring at him, and Kindaichi shuffles uncomfortably under the weight of it.

“You’re not gonna sit there and feel sorry for yourself.” Kunimi says, finally, then reaches up to smack his shoulder. _Hard_. “There’s a food park open near Aobayama. You wanna go?”

Kindaichi is wincing, holding his shoulder where Kunimi struck. He’s mustering up the words to refuse. To say that he’s not in the mood to be out in public. Not right now. Not when he feels so exposed and afraid.

But Kunimi’s looking up at him, reading him in that silent, calculating way that Kunimi is so good at. Then,

“They serve grilled corn. I know one of the stalls shaves off the kernels and puts ‘em into this sauce thing with sugar and cheese on top.”

He’s not even surprised at how quickly saliva spreads through his tongue, how he has to swallow to keep the drool from trickling out of his mouth. He glares pointedly at Kunimi, who isn’t even bothering to hide his smug amusement.

“You evil bastard.”

Kunimi smirks. Hits him again in the same exact spot. Fucking _ow_ —

“Get dressed. And for the love of god, turn your vent on before we leave.”

 

-

 

**10 JULY 2016**  
**17:38**

Kindaichi feels guilty for not being able to remember the last time he and Kunimi went out like this.

The park is alive with all the sights and sounds and smells of a crowded food park. The lanterns glow with the orange of a sunset, the stalls painted bright and eye-catching, peddlers shouting for orders at the top of their lungs. There’s the sound of a griddle hissing, of fire crackling, of knives sliding across a sharpening stone.

The corn is warm and the cheese is still gooey, the flavors rolling smoothly on his tongue. The wave of comfort that comes surging in almost makes him want to cry, but he keeps it in, scoops another spoonful into his mouth and chews through the sharp cheese, to the little bursts of sweet starch inside the yellow kernels. Beside him, Kunimi smiles behind a candied apple, the sticky glaze of caramel a mess on his lips.

Kunimi has his hand firmly in his pocket. Usually they hold hands when they’re out. Nothing more than a childhood habit that carried off to their adulthood, but they’re more careful about being subtler now, after they crossed the age where the act went from cute to scandalous in the eyes of strangers. Earlier he’d chalked it up to Kunimi’s hands being too busy holding the stick, but the treat is nothing but sugar on his lips and teeth, the stick discarded in a trash can they passed earlier, and still he doesn’t reach for Kindaichi.

Kindaichi throws the plastic cup away, smacking his butter-slick lips together, wondering what to say, what to do. He knows things have been strained since…well…since he met Iwaizumi. Since he’d started spending most of his money just for a night or two with him. Just to ward off the gnawing emptiness that he could only seem to ignore when Iwaizumi’s body was pressed tight against his.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened last night, or am I gonna have to guess?”

His head jerks up, mind tearing apart the vision of Iwaizumi’s body bathed in the pale yellow glow of his dressing room lights, to be replaced with the image of Iwaizumi squirming under the mass of another man, gasping and moaning high and wanton and _Harder. Shit. God. You feel so good_. 

The nausea comes back full force, but he fights to keep his face blank, hopes none of his turmoil is noticeable in the dark. Kunimi is sitting, staring out into the edge of the park, where nature meets unforgiving steel and concrete.

“You’re right. I was stupid.” Kindaichi says, tone forcibly casual. “I mean, what was I expecting? That I was the only one?”

Kunimi tilts his head. Kindaichi realizes he’s being vague, but Kunimi’s looking at him like he _knows_ somehow and instead of asking, instead of pushing for more details all he says is, “Love makes a person pretty stupid, doesn’t it?”

Something flashes in Kunimi’s gaze when he looks at him, but he blinks and it’s gone, and Kunimi’s already back to looking out into the silhouette of the city.

“If you’re serious about this guy, then you’re gonna have to face the fact that he’s either gonna keep doing this, or that you’re gonna have to ask him to choose.”

“What right do I have to ask him to do that?” Kindaichi asks, sagging beside Kunimi in a defeated slump, greenery crunching beneath him. “I’m probably just a client to him. Just someone who thinks they know him just because I got into his bed more than once.”

Kunimi hums, tugging at grass until it straightens then slips from his fingers. “So, what now?”

Kindaichi shrugs, feeling vaguely empty, feeling hollowed-out and pulled apart, like bugs crawled their way into him and ate away what’s left in the time he tried not to think about Iwaizumi.

“You said it yourself, I should just stop—”

“Yuu,” Kunimi cuts off, the usually affectionate nickname now loaded and harsh. “You’ve been dragged around by people all your life. Fuck, you’ve been dragged around by _me_.” And here Kindaichi jumps, startled, wants to say _no, that’s not true_ , but Kunimi isn’t finished.

“Don’t you think it’s high-time you decide for yourself what you want to do?”

Kunimi…Kunimi has his head down, hair hanging over his face the way it does when he actively tries to hide his expressions. A defense mechanism. One he always used when he’s in a situation he’d rather not be in.

“Hey,” Kindaichi comes close, curls a gentle hand around Kunimi’s elbow, an age-old protectiveness welling up in his chest. “Kunimi what—”

“What do _you_ want, Kindaichi?” Kunimi cuts off, and looks up at him. Looks at him with those large doe eyes that always seemed like they were staring into his soul, dissecting him down to the microns of his very being. “Tell me.”

His brain is strangely quiet. It’s disconcerting, how his brain comes up blank now. The answer used to be so obvious—greed so strong it threatened to swallow him whole, nails and teeth digging into bronzed skin like he can consume this personification of perfection, have a part of him with him forever.

It used to be so simple. So deceptively simple.

“I don’t know.” Kindaichi chokes, stomach knotting. “I don’t _know_.”

And it’s pathetic, really, how he struggled so long and so silently only to find that he’s lost the ability to make decisions for himself, when it actually matters. That all those years spent inside his parents’ carefully constructed cage has turned him into this volatile cocktail of afraid and impulsive and self-destructive and spiteful and that when the time comes to actually sit down to face the facts and make an educated decision he clams up and waits for someone to hold his hand and drag him to the right answer.

His heart aches, like its usual home between his lungs is becoming too small to contain it. Kunimi stares at him for a while, nothing but the sigh of wind filling the awkward span of silence, but then Kunimi’s hand moves, slips into his pocket, and just as quickly pulls out, holding something small and shiny between two fingers.

A coin.

“You ever heard this saying that goes, if you wanna make a decision, flip a coin.” Kunimi flicks it into the air, enough momentum to get it spinning elegantly before landing in his palm. “And in the moment the coin is in the air, you’ll know what it is you really want?”

Kindaichi shakes his head, confused.

“Heads, call him.” He twirls the coin between his fingers, the glint of faded streetlamps brightening anew on the nickel surface. “Tails, delete his number, and put all this behind you.”

Kunimi eyes him, waits, and Kindaichi’s heart is jackrabbiting in his chest. Silence wraps over them, anticipatory and ominous, the kind before something life-changing.

Kindaichi barely even feels the nod, but the next thing he knows is that Kunimi’s hand is empty, thumb pointing up, and when he looks, the coin is in the air, flying and flipping, fighting gravity until the bitter end.

The coin almost seems to stop in midair, hovering on the precipice of flight just before the inevitable drop. It continues to spin, slowly, impossibly so, and it’s falling—

The coin doesn’t land in Kunimi’s waiting hand. Kindaichi’s breathing is erratic, his blood loud as it rushes past his ears. His palm stings, almost burns, where the cold edge of the coin digs.

Kunimi smiles, soft and resigned and just a little bit sad, and puts his empty hand back into his pocket. Tucks his chin to his chest, hair falling on his face like a curtain. Like a shield.

“Let’s go home.” he says, stands, and walks on ahead.

Kindaichi watches him go, shoulders squared and back straight, like a great weight’s been lifted off them. There’s an odd stutter in his step, like the gait of a man shaking off the last strings keeping him tied to the very thing he’s trying to walk away from.

The coin falls from Kindaichi’s grip, plays a little song on the grass, before rolling away.

 

-

 

**13 JULY 2016**  
**02:00**

He doesn’t call.

He doesn’t call because some part of him still stings with the hurt he’s not even sure he’s allowed to feel. He doesn’t call because he’s a coward. He doesn’t call because since Sunday he drowned himself in enough work just to keep from thinking about it. And for the most part, he succeeds.

But then it’s Tuesday night Kageyama himself is pulling the plug on his desktop and rolling him out of the office by his own chair.

(and he actually manages to wheel _in_ the elevator, all because the remains of Kindaichi’s brain cells aren’t enough to properly react to his boss’ intervention, but when he tries to get up, Kageyama plants his hands firmly on his shoulders)

“Someone told me you were here last Sunday.” Kageyama had said, jaw clenched with the effort of keeping Kindaichi in the seat. “You are not to report to work tomorrow, Kindaichi or else, I swear—”

“You are probably the only boss in this fucking country to ever complain about employees working too much.” Kindaichi grits out, violently shaking off Kageyama’s hands on his shoulders. “How the fuck do you even expect to function without me, you can’t fucking find your _pen_ —”

“I ran this company for a year without your help.” Kageyama shoots back. “I mean it. Rest. If this is because you and Kunimi are fighting again—”

“We’re _not_.”

“Well _whatever it is,_ ” Kageyama grunts, just barely dodging the fist Kindaichi aims at his chin. “Use your surprise paid leave tomorrow to sort it out.”

The elevator opens with a happy little ding, and Kageyama pushes the chair so fast Kindaichi holds on to the armrests for dear life. Before he knows it, the chair goes from rolling smoothly on ceramic tile to bouncing off the stairs on the building’s main entrance, before it’s unceremoniously tipped over, Kindaichi falling face-first into plush leather seats.

Kindaichi groans, lifts his head from the seat in time to see Kageyama handing the taxi driver an obscene amount of bills and a slip of paper presumably containing his address, then turn to him and say bye with a mocking salute before the driver steps on the gas.

Kindaichi wonders, not for the first time, why he’s friends with this asshole.

And that’s how he finds himself home. Strung tight and awake at 2 in the morning because Kageyama locked him out of his e-mail, his file storage accounts, locked him out of his own _laptop_ where all his spreadsheets and documents are. Fucking meticulous asshole.

He hadn’t gotten any work done since Kageyama kicked him out of the office and now he’s not nearly exhausted enough to collapse in bed and sleep like he did yesterday and the day before that. All he has is his phone is in his hands, as heavy as the weight of the fucking world, it seems.

He swallows. He hasn’t touched a cigarette since Saturday but even then his mouth and throat are painfully dry.

It takes him a while for his thumb to finally start moving. His blurred vision doesn’t deter muscle memory, and when the rings begin to echo in the small space, he almost wishes Iwaizumi wouldn’t pick u—

“Kindaichi?”

He doesn’t realize how much he’d ached with missing Iwaizumi’s voice until it’s there, filtering in his ears through the soft muffle of distance.

Kindaichi brings the phone to his ear, licks his lips at the second, confused call of his name. Opens his mouth. Struggles to say the words that have always been right under his tongue.

“Are you still at work?” he says instead, and winces, knows even as he says it that it’s entirely the wrong thing to say.

There’s a sigh, shuddering and laden with something like _relief_ , but Kindaichi knows better than to hope.

“No I…I was on break actually. Had been for the past three days. I was in Taihaku with my friends. I was trying to contact you whenever I got reception. You weren’t answering.”

Iwaizumi seems to know. He’s using that warm, patient tone and Kindaichi can’t believe he can tell the difference just from a month of constant communication. He closes his eyes and imagines him right there, beside him, breath puffing against bare skin, leaning close enough for their lips to touch, the taste of cherries flooding like sweet, sweet smoke in his mouth.

He closes his eyes until his lids throb. Breathes until the overwhelming need to cry tapers off just the slightest bit.

God, he misses him. He wants him.

He loves him.

He’d fallen. He’d fallen hard and fast and he’s so, so scared.

“Iwaizumi-san.” he starts, jaw trembling violently, voice shaking as it claws out of him. “What are we?”

The moment the last syllable dissipates into the air, a thick atmosphere falls over them, scary and suffocating and Kindaichi feels the numbness of fear course through his entire body. He feels like he’s just made a mistake. Feels like a kid facing down the inevitable force of his father’s hand. The anticipation builds in the silence, and breaks, shatters, crumbles to dust with the softest sigh.

“Listen.” Iwaizumi says, and it sounds choked up. Holds none of the usual confidence of his voice. “I can’t do this. Not here. Not to you.”

And Kindaichi thinks that might just be the start of the end, feels it hit him with the force of a bullet even though he’d braced himself for the possibility before he even made the call—

“Where do you live?”

“Otemachi. Near Hirose River.” Kindaichi answers, heart beating in a rhythm so odd it makes him dizzy.

“Are you alright with meeting me at Nishi Park? Give me ten minutes before you head out, is that fine?”

His chest constricts, the anticipation and uncertainty welling up again.

“Okay.” he breathes, standing on too-shaky legs. “I’ll meet you by the old train?”

“Alright.” Iwaizumi says, then, “Kindaichi?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

Kindaichi doesn’t know what to say, but the sound that comes out of him is entirely too neutral. He ends the call there, takes a moment to realign himself, to sift through the tangled lines of his mind and realize what he just did, what he just agreed to.

Iwaizumi hadn’t given him an answer. Hadn’t answered but asked to meet him. Whatever the ending to this would be, he’d get to witness it with Iwaizumi standing in front of him. With the cool, forest notes of his perfume wafting into his nose, with his warmth just an arm’s length away, close enough to touch.

The thought daunts him, and yet he’s already stalking forward, his door opening beneath his hand, his feet going from the carpet of his room to the wood of the hallway to the painted cement of the foyer, slipping into his shoes—

“Kindaichi?”

He pauses, hand on the knob and one foot out the door and head angled back to find Kunimi standing in the hallway, hands behind his back.

He looks strange—looks nothing like Kindaichi had ever seen him before. There’s an odd sort of surrender in his eyes. The only light is from the streetlamps outside that filter in through the open door but even then Kindaichi thinks it’s strange how the light passes over Kunimi’s face.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it further, because Kunimi’s hands come into view, holding something dark and heavy and when he throws it, Kindaichi instinctively dives to catch it.

A coat.

“It’s cold out.” is all Kunimi says, and whatever worry twisting in his gut unwinds, replaced by something warm, something solid and comforting.

Kunimi is still standing there, arms wrapped around himself, watching and waiting, and Kindaichi lets himself be overtaken by the need to run back inside and hold him, muffle Kunimi’s gasp into his shoulder and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks, Aki.” he murmurs into his thin hair, arms curling tighter around his ribs. He still can’t see his face properly in the dark, with them pressed this close, but there’s a shade of a smile on his shoulder, and when they pull apart, Kindaichi drapes the jacket on like armor, and feels just a little bit braver.

He steps out of the apartment feeling—for the first time in a painfully long time—like he’s doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/159084791151/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-9-still-you-fill-up) for chapter 9
> 
> the next chapter will be a short interlude, just to give insight into Kunimi's take on the situation, which can hopefully explain why he's suddenly so supportive


	10. Interlude V - Kunimi Akira

**09 JULY 2016**  
**23:08**

 

Kunimi opens his eyes to the sound of Kindaichi’s phone ringing.

It had been ringing earlier too, vibrating in Kindaichi’s pocket as he clung to Kunimi and cried, the sweet little chimes a sharp contrast to his broken, heaving sobs.

Kunimi carefully sits up, untangles his and Kindaichi’s hands and navigates the darkness, guided by the blinking light of a phone screen, dimmed beneath the fabric of a shirt carelessly tossed aside.

He takes a moment to stare at the characters spelling out _Iwaizumi Hajime_ , at the photo of a stranger holding a Godzilla plush to his chest as he smiled at the camera. He’d held a lot of visions of the appearance of the man Kindaichi had fallen for. Maybe someone willowy. Someone narrower and softer around the face, as was Kindaichi’s usual type. But this…

He’s recolored by a dusky filter, but his features are endearingly striking, carrying a face that people would be compelled to look twice at if they passed him in the streets, with its green irises framed with sparse lashes and sharply-angled eyes. The arm wrapped around the stuffed toy is toned, veins faintly running between muscles and tan skin. Safe to assume the rest of his body is in a similar state too.

He almost looks unreal, but there’s a smattering of acne scars on the bridge of his nose, moles at the edge of his chin, on his neck, down to the shadow of a collarbone peeking from beneath his top. But the imperfections do nothing to sway the fact that he looks every bit the man that could seduce whoever he wanted.

And it says so, _so_ much about Kunimi’s luck really, that out of all the men he could possibly want, all the men he probably already has, he sets his eyes on the only person Kunimi ever loved.

He feels the jealousy flare up, the resentment and the anger along with it, but Kindaichi snores on the bed (a soft, ugly little sound, one he never really outgrew) and that alone puts out the fire before it can burn any hotter. He’s left with a nauseating, unsettling heat, throat itchy like he’d just taken a gasp of Kindaichi’s secondhand smoke.

The ringing seeps back into his brain like a persistent reminder, the vibrations crawling their way up his arm. He accepts the call and presses the phone to his ear.

The voice on the other end comes frantic. Loud. All Kunimi comprehends is the relieved-shocked yell of _Kindaichi_ before it devolves into explanations and apologies Kunimi drowns out because they’re not meant for him.

He— _Iwaizumi_ —sounds panicked. Sounds frantic and worn and this is the first time Kunimi has ever heard his voice but he thinks it sounds like he’s about to cry, like he’s _been_ crying and is trying so hard not to do it again.

Eventually, he slows down, the frenzied whirlwind of his voice giving way to confusion, a slight peppering of hope.

“Kindaichi?”

Kunimi licks his lip. Breathes. “He’s asleep.”

“Who’s this?” Iwaizumi asks, after a beat of silence. Cold as ice and just as brittle. The change is so sudden, Kunimi almost wonders if he’s talking to a completely different person.

“His…” Kunimi licks his lip again, thins them out in mild irritation. “roommate.” Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything back. Kunimi barrels on. “I hope you’ll excuse the fact that I’m not going to wake him. Mental breakdowns tend to tire out a person.”

There’s silence again. Heavier this time. The guilty kind.

“Can I just explain?” Iwaizumi asks. Kunimi is almost taken aback again. He’d assumed that Iwaizumi would be shouting in his ear at this point. Instead he sounds more polite. Humbler. Like he knows he’s not in any place to be making demands. “There’s been a misunderstanding. He walked in on me during a scene with a client and I need to—”

“Why do you care?” Kunimi cuts off, low and glacial. “Based on what I hear you’re not exactly desperate for clients. So why do you insist on hounding Kindaichi?”

He’s just baiting Iwaizumi at this point. He already knows why. Years working in a call center has lent him many skills. Primarily, being able to read people through the phone as keenly as he can in real life. He can hear it in the slight, hysterical edge in Iwaizumi’s voice. Knows it by the near-endless stream of calls that came during Kindaichi’s breakdown. There’s an authenticity in his desperation that can’t be faked. This isn’t a game to him. And Kindaichi isn’t just some client. And any hope that Kunimi ever had of nipping this whole mess in the bud slips from his fingers.

“Please.” Iwaizumi says, and Kunimi hears the last wisps of his syllable catch on a sob. “Please just let me talk to him.”

Kunimi feels a familiar, terrible numbness spread through him, but he holds. Dear god, he holds with everything he has.

“He’ll talk to you when he decides he’s ready.” Kunimi says. Steady. Level. Robotic. “Until then, please leave him alone.”

He ends the call there, briefly allowing himself to take a bit of cruel satisfaction, but finds that it’s mostly relief that takes hold of him. He deletes the call log, but keeps all the other missed calls, just so Kindaichi won’t be suspicious.

“Aki?” Kindaichi whimpers, cutting through the machinations of Kunimi’s thoughts. Kunimi immediately bolts over to his side, pulled by his distress.

“I’m here, Yuu.” he whispers, reaches out and gently brushes back the stubborn strands over Kindaichi’s forehead. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

Kindaichi does, fussing going less frequent until he stills completely, and Kunimi carefully slips back under the blanket, reaching down to interlace their fingers, holding tight, holding like he’s afraid to let go.

 

-

 

**13 JULY 2016**  
**02:23**

Kunimi knows that it’s late. That it’s a Wednesday. That later his body will be giving him hell for not getting enough sleep. But even the threat of a long day isn’t enough to get him to move from his spot on the hallway, staring at the door where Kindaichi disappeared from, wearing his jacket and a smile and a determined set to his shoulders.

He thinks if he were anyone other than himself, he’d be crying right about now. Collapsing under the weight of years-worth of unrequited feelings, of sacrifices and small gestures and hints thrown in vain. Stumbling into the fridge to get a drink. Sneaking into Kindaichi’s room to steal a smoke. Wrapping his fingers around the nearest breakable object and throwing it hard enough to shatter against the wall.

But he does none of those things. Instead he sits in silence for a while, waits for the fist around his heart to unclench. Waits until he can breathe without feeling like he’ll snap and crumble to pieces if he inhales any deeper. He stumbles to the bathroom and splashes water over his face, lets the ice bite into his skin and melt away the pinpricks of pain threatening to overtake him.

He loses little pockets of time: staring at himself in the mirror one second and curled up on the floor in the next, the sleeve of his sweater pressed over one eye, arm half-curled around himself, fingertips digging into his temple where the hair is wet and tacky and itchy against his skin.

It’s an awkward position but he can’t put his arm down somehow. He realizes belatedly that his sleeve is damp not from tap water because the wet that seeps into the skin of his wrist is warm. The corners of his lips are downturned, digging into the trenches of his face in a way that’s wholly unfamiliar.

His lips split open, and out tumbles a broken sob, a choked whine. He tries to keep his jaws together but it only makes it worse, the sounds hollowing across his mouth, blowing against the back of his chattering teeth. His eyes burn with tears, hot and scalding as they pour. His chest aches, like his ribs are caging his lungs in too tight, the sharp points of it digging into the give of the organs and threatening to puncture into them.

Everything hurts. Everything hurts and Kunimi has no idea why they call it _heartbreak_ when it feels like he’s breaking in all his entirety.

He’d already expected this. Had known it the moment Kindaichi’s hand shot out to stop that coin from making the decision for him. Kindaichi had gripped the coin, white-knuckled and wide-eyed. Fist shaking like he’s holding his free will in his hands, like he _just_ realized that it’s been there all along, hovering in front of his nose.

Seeing Kindaichi at the door, the glow of determination lighting up his eyes, it almost made it easier. Almost made it easier to concede to the fact that Kindaichi will never see him as anything more than a friend. Whatever carefully-curated confession he’d spent years on had shriveled up on his tongue like paper burning to ash.

He’d resolved not to say anything, just threw the jacket at Kindaichi like some half-assed approval. Permission. A sad little metaphor for letting go of everything he’d secretly harbored for so long. And when Kindaichi hugged him, kissed him and said _thanks, Aki_ , he almost broke, but he’d held. He’d held until the door shut behind Kindaichi’s gleefully oblivious figure, and now he’s sitting against the wall of the bathroom feeling like some part of him just died.

When his limbs finally unbuckle, when his breathing has steadied, when his face is as dry as he can possibly get it, his clumsy hands pull his phone from his pocket. It’s late, he knows, but that still doesn’t stop his fingers from tapping in a number he’d been calling far too often in the past few days.

A small corner of his brain wails at his audacity, at his weakness, but there’s no time for its admonishments to settle any deeper, because the ringing gets cut off, replaced by a voice rough and dry from sleep.

“Kunimi?” Kageyama groans, predictably miffed. “It’s 2 in the fucking morning.”

There’s rustling on the other side, some grunts and whines and a muffled _Tobio?_ from a voice he’d only ever heard once before. His face heats up in shame. The anxiety he thought he’d abandoned somewhere after college rears its ugly head and weighs his tongue down. His thumb is preparing to end the call as soon as he mumbles whatever apology he can muster, but Kageyama’s voice comes again, suddenly sharp and severe, belying his earlier sleep-addled tone.

“You hang up this call and I’m climbing in my car and driving to your apartment.”

It almost surprises him, how easily he forgets that this man has known him for years, can understand his silences just as easily as words. Kageyama waits patiently on the other end, breaths calm in the anticipatory silence. Kunimi’s sure he’s reaching for his keys.

Kunimi makes a vague sound in the back of his throat. Just to stop Kageyama from following through with his promise, maybe, or to reassure him that he’s still on the other end. He licks his lips, takes a few more calming breaths.

“I didn’t…” he starts, but loses the rest of the words the second it slips out. “I couldn’t…”

He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. Kageyama gets it though. Kunimi can hear how his breath blows out in an exasperated sigh.

“Kunimi,” Kageyama coaxes, voice patient in the way that he rarely ever is, “it wasn’t like I was forcing you to confess. You tell him when you’re ready. ’Sides, if you’ve kept it in for all these years I’m pretty sure—”

“I didn’t tell him.” Kunimi says. “I’m not going to tell him.”

Not even the sound of breathing comes through. When Kageyama’s reply comes, it’s nothing more than a pinched and strained “ _What?_ ”

Kageyama’s breathing is a little stilted, like he wants to protest. Kunimi recalls their last conversation, just five days ago, where Kageyama confronted him about his motives and his feelings and _If this has been going on for as long as I think it has…then don’t you think he at least deserves to know?_

 _And what good would that do?_ Kunimi snapped, hand squeezes dangerously tight around his phone. _It’ll just slap on another layer of complications and he doesn’t_ need _that right now._

 _And you think he’ll stop trusting you when he finds out you’ve had feelings for him?_ Kageyama challenged. _Do you really think he thinks so lowly of you, Kunimi? That he’ll think you’re just someone who was nice to him for all these years because you were hoping one day he’d finally agree to be your boyfriend?_

 _Kindaichi loves you._ Kageyama continued, and it was said with such flippancy, said like it’s a fact of life, and it made Kunimi’s stomach swoop low in his gut. _Gods, he probably thinks the sun shines out of your sullen face. And maybe the worst that can come out of this is that he’ll feel obligated to return your feelings because he doesn’t want to hurt you. And if that ever happens it’ll be on you to tell him he’s being an idiot._

And yes, _yes_ Kunimi was so afraid of that. Had always been afraid of that. Would rather just end his friendship with Kindaichi then and there than force him to endure a relationship built upon guilt and pity.

But now, now after everything’s said and done and over with, Kunimi knows that regardless of whether or not he tells Kindaichi, they’re never going to end up together. By not telling Kindaichi at all, Kunimi can spare him the responsibility, the knowledge that all this time he’d left Kunimi pining, that he’ll leave Kunimi hurting by choosing Iwaizumi. Kindaichi can go on with his life in sweet ignorance and Kunimi can move on, on his own.

In the end, it’s not really that hard of a decision to make.

“Don’t you think that keeping this from him is no different from manipulating him?” Kageyama says carefully. There’s no malice in it, no judgement. Just a cold, truthful statement. “How can you expect him to make a responsible decision when he’s not in possession of all the facts?”

“We both know that the ending to this isn’t going to change.” Kunimi insists, plowing through the guilt Kageyama’s words are forcing on him. “He ran out just now. To see Iwaizumi, most likely. Telling him would only add more drama.”

Drama that they frankly don’t want _or_ need, Kunimi thinks. Not after the fiasco of last Saturday.

“He’ll be happy with Iwaizumi.” Kunimi continues, slipping it into the silence. “He already is. You said it yourself.”

“And you?”

For the second time that night Kunimi feels like the air’s been punched out of him. The warning prickle of tears come again, and Kunimi bites down the sob just in time.

“As long as Kindaichi’s happy.”

It’s cliched and it’s the kind of statement that Kunimi used to make fun of TV show protagonists for, but there’s nothing better, nothing truer than he can possibly say.

It hurts. It hurts, but he’s giving up Kindaichi to someone who can make him smile like he’s young and sweet and untouched by all the fucked-up shit he’s been forced to endure. Some human, selfish part of Kunimi wants to hate Kindaichi, hate Iwaizumi, hate this stupid drama his life has somehow turned into but a deeper, more integral part of him is at peace. The part that opened his apartment door to Kindaichi without question. The part that glows with warmth at the sight of Kindaichi’s easy smile.

Kindaichi’s happy. And truth be told that’s really all Kunimi had ever wanted, more than Kindaichi himself.

The silence is expected. Kageyama takes a while to process certain things, and from over the phone Kunimi gets a whiff of uncertainty, of confusion, then a strange, serene acceptance that comes in a soft exhale.

“Do you want to go out tomorrow?”

A different sort of shock hits him then, and all he can muster up is a rather inarticulate _Huh?_

“We haven’t gone out in a while.” Kageyama mutters, low and embarrassed. Kunimi pictures him with his head down, lips jutted out in that strange resentful pout. “It’s always you and Kindaichi or me and Kindaichi. Y’know. Just to even the scales a bit.”

Kunimi feels irritation prickle in the back of his mind. “I don’t need your pity pa—”

“I can make a reservation in the bowling alley,” Kageyama’s voice filters in from farther away, like Kunimi’s been put on speaker. He’s probably pulling up websites, plucking ideas out of thin air. “If you’re not into that, then a movie? There’s a horror one showing. We could go ice skating?”

“You’re about as graceful on the ice as a cow.”

Kageyama scoffs. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Right.” Kunimi drawls, and it takes a moment to register that it came out with his usual dryness.

“We’ll iron out the details when it’s not such a shit hour, how’s that?”

It’s not lost on Kageyama either. Kunimi hears a hint of a smile in his voice. Some part of him feels like he’d been played, but the slow curl of a smile on his own lips probably means he doesn’t mind all that much either.

“Alright.” he sighs, leaning back against the cold tile, finally loose-limbed enough to relax. “Sorry for waking you. Hinata-san too.”

“It’s fine. He went right back to sleep anyway.” Kageyama reassures. There’s a pause, but it’s not cautious nor tense. Just Kageyama breathing softly on the other side, almost lullaby-like in its rhythm.

“You’ll be okay?”

Lying used to come so naturally to Kunimi, juggling half-truths and omissions in his head, cherry-picking words to best suit his needs. But instead he says “I already am.” and it slides out light and easy, like it’s the truth. “Goodnight, Kageyama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/159635759991/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-10-interlude) for chapter 10
> 
> Matsukawa's interlude next! Then we end this mess with Iwaizumi and Kindaichi confronting e/o @_@ not sure when the next chapter will be but I think in 2 weeks? Sorry we just had a week of vacation but I couldn't get any writing done with all the ~reunions~


	11. Interlude VI - Matsukawa Issei

**10 JULY 2016**  
**12:16**

They prepare to hit the road as soon as they wake up, blearily blinking back sleep as Hanamaki works to turn last night’s leftovers into omurice. Iwaizumi’s clearly not used to being up at this time, groaning and leaning heavily against Matsukawa beside him, even after a full cup of coffee.

“I hate you.” Iwaizumi mutters, his coffee-laced morning breath blowing over Matsukawa’s shoulder. “You said you’d wake me after noon.”

“It _is_ after noon, Hajime.” Matsukawa responds, chuckling lightly, and Iwaizumi only groans and slumps on the table instead, forehead-first.

They eat quickly and shower even quicker, and Iwaizumi stumbles out of the shower looking marginally more like a functional human being, if still a bit crankier than normal. They putter out of Iwaizumi’s apartment after making sure everything is acceptably clean, nothing at risk of rotting in the fridge while they’re gone. Iwaizumi only has a duffel bag, hastily-packed after their midnight dinner. Hanamaki reaches out to take it from him as he struggles with the locks and goes on ahead to load it into the car. Matsukawa leans over the railings, listening to the _scratch-scritch_ of gravel against shoes as Hanamaki steps out into the parking lot, the car unlocking with a flash of headlights and a welcoming chirp.

He glances off to the side. Iwaizumi’s hands have dropped from the knob. He’s staring into space now, fingers fidgeting at his hips. He watches as Iwaizumi slowly fishes his phone out of his pocket. To anyone else, the sluggishness of his movements can easily be interpreted as a product of his sleep deprivation, but Matsukawa can see the edges of hesitation, of sadness, of something akin to pain and guilt.

He knows this last one well. He’s seen it on himself in the past week, manifesting as shadows beneath his eyes and flashes of memories he’d really rather forget.

He watches Iwaizumi fiddle with his phone just a little longer, watches him thumb through his contacts list, back and forth, back and forth, before he shakes his head and shuts his eyes tight, then brings the device to his ear.

Matsukawa blinks, stands back, leaves him alone.

For now.

 

-

 

**10 JULY 2016**  
**12:29**

They leave as soon as Iwaizumi slides into the backseat, still looking a little down, but he smiles when Hanamaki starts up an impromptu karaoke in the driver’s seat two minutes into the drive. Matsukawa groans a little in embarrassment when Hanamaki slows at a red light and begins to wholeheartedly dance to the choreography of the idol song currently playing, shrieking the lyrics in a painfully high-pitched voice.

His antics get Iwaizumi laughing though, and he takes it upon himself to smack Hanamaki’s shoulder as a reminder of his driver duties whenever the light finally switches to green, so Matsukawa only quirks a smile and lets it continue.

Taihaku isn’t that far off, barely an hour-long drive, but the shift of the landscape is palpable, trees and mountains rising to replace the urban jungle. Matsukawa pulls the window down and breathes deep. Hanamaki has quieted down too, eyes darting between the stretch of empty road and the thicket of the forest all around them.

Matsukawa checks the rearview mirror and finds Iwaizumi frowning at his phone again. The area they’re headed to is notorious for having little reception. He initially thought that’d be a good thing, for Iwaizumi especially. Now, he takes in the little stress lines at the corners of his anxious frown, his worry-bitten lips, and reevaluates that thought.

The onsen’s sign comes into view, and Hanamaki makes a slow right to roll into the parking lot, pebbles crackling beneath the wheels of the car. Matsukawa stumbles out, stretching stiff joints (Hanamaki doesn’t, since he’d spent about a quarter of the ride flailing to girl group songs).

Iwaizumi slips out a little later, hand just reappearing from under his pocket. Matsukawa’s eyes zero in on the act, turns to Hanamaki.

“Taka.” Matsukawa calls out, and Hanamaki acknowledges him with an obliging hum.

“You go on ahead and talk to the receptionist.” he says, hands over the coupons and his wallet, taking the bags from Hanamaki in exchange. “I’ll handle things here.”

Hanamaki blinks at him, and he only blinks back and that’s all it takes to get Hanamaki shrugging, slipping the car keys into Matsukawa’s hand and leaning in with a brief whisper of _good luck_ and a peck to his cheek.

The whole exchange is subtle enough that Iwaizumi wouldn’t have noticed, but going by how distracted he looks, Matsukawa doubts he’d even bat an eyelash if Hanamaki had shoved him against the side of the car and started sucking out his soul through his mouth. His bags are already slung over his shoulders, and he’s reaching up, trying to grab the lip of the trunk door without actually looking.

Matsukawa only nudges Iwaizumi aside and closes the trunk. Iwaizumi looks up at him, but the smile on his face is too forced, too obviously trying to convince him that nothing is wrong.

Matsukawa sighs, just a little, through his nose. Iwaizumi blinks, tilts his head a little to the side like Matsukawa’s seen puppies do and _god_ Matsukawa can’t resist.

He reaches up, casually pinches a cheek, far too gently than how he normally does it, and Iwaizumi frowns but lets him do it, leans into the touch and that softens Matsukawa up even more.

He’d been so sure that after raising his hand against Iwaizumi, he’d never get this chance again.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, tone lifting lightly at the end as a hinted _you can say no_. Iwaizumi’s eyes slide shut and his whole disposition shifts, shoulders sagging like they’re tired of holding up the weight of pretending. He angles away from Matsukawa’s touch and Matsukawa lets him have his space, lets him stand there without being touched and watches him breathe. In. Out.

“There’s been a misunderstanding.” he says. “At work. With a client.”

Matsukawa’s eyes narrow instinctively. Iwaizumi shakes his head.

“It’s not—It’s actually my fault I—” his eyes dart left and right, a habit as old as their friendship. His gaze shifts restlessly until he loses the words completely, just falling back with a defeated sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Matsukawa doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He lifts his hand in an attempt at comfort and Iwaizumi doesn’t move away, lets him card a hand through his short, spiked hair and curl fingers behind his ear.

“I’d really rather not let this ruin the trip though.” Iwaizumi murmurs. “Just forget it.”

 _How can I?_ Matsukawa wants to protest. _You’re upset._

He doesn’t say those though, because it’s not what Iwaizumi needs. He needs to know that this trip will fix the gaping rift that still hovers between them; Matsukawa and Hanamaki on one side, Iwaizumi alone on the other. He needs to know that he still has them. He needs to know that he won’t ruin this trip for either of them because he can’t hide the fact that he’s distressed.

So he tilts Iwaizumi’s head up, brushes back the stray hairs and presses his lips flat on his forehead, where he always loved to be kissed. Matsukawa feels the skin grown warm beneath his lips and he slips an arm over Iwaizumi’s shoulders to tuck him close to his side, loving how easily, how well he fits.

They reach the lobby and Hanamaki greets them with a pout, quickly stomping forward to get between them, tugging Iwaizumi to his chest and huffing indignantly.

“Did you make me go ahead just so you can have some alone time with Hajime?” Hanamaki narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Issei, I don’t think we can still be together after this _betrayal_ —”

Iwaizumi’s saying something, words that just end up muffled against Hanamaki’s pecs. Matsukawa rolls his eyes.

“Hey, _you_ were hogging him last night.”

“Not my fault I’m the better big spoon between the two of us.” Hanamaki hugs Iwaizumi tighter against him, the latter’s struggles increasing tenfold. “Just accept it, Issei, I’m his favorite. No amount of alone time you sneak in will change that.”

Iwaizumi starts shrieking at this point (after escaping from Hanamaki’s hold with a gasp) variations of _I’m not your kid!_ sprinkled with more creative expletives when all Hanamaki does is coo at him in response.

Matsukawa fights down the fond smile, and uses one of the lighter bags to whack them both over the heads.

“Can we at least get settled first? _Then_ we’ll argue about who’s the favorite.”

 

-

 

**10 JULY 2016**  
**16:33**

Matsukawa grew up understanding love a little differently.

He remembers growing up and believing that love is slaps across the face, fiery insults, being made to kneel on a floor dusted with rock salt. He remembers growing up and hearing _why can’t you be more like your brother_ and _such a disappointment_ echoing endlessly in the rooms of his childhood home. He remembers being eight and not even knowing what a hug feels like.

 _Tough love_ , his parents called it, everytime they raised their hands in preparation for another violent act. _Tough love_.

Matsukawa remembers growing up and being so sure that he wanted nothing to do with love. He’d almost succeeded too. Kept quiet. Built a house around himself and locked all the doors. Refused to let anyone in.

That is until Hanamaki came and knocked down his flimsy walls with a sharp grin and a pale hand tugging at his sleeve, his puberty-roughened voice asking him if he wants to play volleyball.

He opens his eyes against the memory of the very first smile Hanamaki ever gave him, only to come face to face with the real thing. For the first time in a while he feels happy. Content. Here in the stillness of forest, waddling from the unbalanced weight of Hanamaki hanging off of one arm.

They’re trekking the foot of the mountain, greenery crunching beneath their soles. Iwaizumi’s leading the way, eyes wide and bright with curiosity, crouching down to get a close look at whatever bug catches his fancy.

“Did you ever find out what’s up?” Hanamaki whispers, careful to keep his voice low.

“He said it was about work. A client.” Matsukawa responds. “Do you think it’s Oikawa?”

Hanamaki’s lips twitch into a thoughtful frown. “Maybe. He won’t be this upset over some random guy.”

Matsukawa hums in agreement, indulgently twining his fingers around Hanamaki’s when he reaches down to flatten their palms together. The sounds of nature around them are a calming song, soothing his very soul, and it seems to have that effect on all of them. Iwaizumi’s smiling, his face tireless and happy, the lines of his body soft with a serenity he probably hasn’t experienced in a while. His hands are cupped around something and his shining eyes are staring down at it like it’s his newborn. Beside him, Hanamaki snaps a photo.

“Do you want to confront him about it?” Hanamaki asks, very quickly throwing up a peace sign when Iwaizumi turns with narrowed eyes at the sound of the shutter clicking. Matsukawa laughs at his pout, but his smile slips off the second Iwaizumi turns back to his new pet.

“No.” he says. “He doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

Hanamaki stares at him for a second too long, then relents with a small nod.

Matsukawa tugs Hanamaki forward, striding quick and long until they catch up to Iwaizumi. He looks up. There’s a large beetle crawling on the back of his hand and he smiles and sets it back down on the tree before straightening, patting the back of his jeans.

He looks at Iwaizumi and remembers the day his fingers tapped a folded piece of paper against his wrist, all notes from Hanamaki that soon turned into notes from Iwaizumi himself, bulldozing away the last of his walls, reaching in to take the hand that Hanamaki wasn’t already holding. Matsukawa didn’t protest then and he doesn’t protest now, curling his fingers around the width of Iwaizumi’s hand as easily as he did Hanamaki’s, and lets him drag he and Hanamaki along, continuing down the trail as three.

 

-

 

**10 JULY 2016**  
**19:56**

He’s still a little full from dinner, feeling satisfyingly heavy, soaking in the hot water like a chunk of meat on the boil.

Hanamaki sits across from him, groaning obscenely the moment he sinks chin-deep into the water. Matsukawa splashes him for that but he only smiles mischievously, thin eyebrows wagging.

“No.” Iwaizumi hisses beside Matsukawa. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you even _think about it_ —”

Hanamaki barks out a boisterous laugh, slipping from the stone he’s sitting on to wade over to their side. Iwaizumi moves to wiggle away but it’s obvious he’s not even trying, with how fast Hanamaki manages to wrap arms around his waist, pull him onto his lap.

There’s something oddly intimate about it, watching Hanamaki and Iwaizumi cuddling like that, naked as the day they were born, Hanamaki’s pale skin contrasting with Iwaizumi’s bronzed tan, but instead of the heat of arousal pooling low in his belly, he gets a bright flash of bubbly happiness, something warm and wholly innocent and he smiles at the picture they make.

“I missed you, Hajime.” Hanamaki says, mumbles, a sweet cadence to his voice. “ _We_ missed you. You don’t even know…”

It was barely a week, really. There’d been times where they’ve been separated for far longer, but this was different.

Iwaizumi’s face falls the slightest, a strange sadness passing over his features even as Hanamaki nuzzles all over his face, but he mumbles _I missed you too_ right back and slides his arms around Hanamaki’s neck and lets himself be held.

“Tired, Hajime?” Hanamaki coos, laughs when Iwaizumi smacks his shoulder. Matsukawa clicks his tongue, moves in to kiss the spot Iwaizumi smacked, then turns up Iwaizumi’s palm to kiss the reddened, pruny fingers.

For all his protests, Iwaizumi _does_ fall asleep like that, dragged right into slumber from all the stress of the previous week. Matsukawa frowns at the darker-than-usual half-circles ringing his undereyes, the sallowness to his skin.

“I’m taking him to bed.” Hanamaki huffs, hooks beneath Iwaizumi’s thighs before getting up. Matsukawa watches them cautiously, hovering a safe distance just in case he slips.

“Need help?”

“Nah.” Hanamaki readjusts his hold, lifts an arm and flexes his biceps. Matsukawa rolls his eyes. Typical.

Hanamaki does carry him to the changing area easily, but Matsukawa steps out to help him get Iwaizumi’s yukata on, slipping his limp limbs into the cotton fabric. He groans and fusses but doesn’t wake, and Matsukawa reaches out to brush his damp hair from his forehead, kisses his temple and whispers _Goodnight, Hajime_.

Hanamaki smiles at the exchange, looks up at him, leans in for a short peck and a sweet _Goodnight_ before shuffling out to the hall, Iwaizumi held securely on his back.

 

-

 

**11 JULY 2016**  
**06:01**

Matsukawa takes it upon himself to order room service while Iwaizumi and Hanamaki are out jogging. They come back much earlier than expected, and much sweatier and more out of breath than any morning jog warrants, and it’s only when Iwaizumi lets out a breathless _asshole challenged me to a race_ does Matsukawa finally let them in.

“Winner gets first shower,” Iwaizumi promptly declares, and the identity of said winner is immediately revealed when Hanamaki groans but makes no move for the lone shower.

“You saw this coming.” Matsukawa scolds lightly, though he does hand his boyfriend a towel and a glass of water. Hanamaki scowls, but says nothing.

Room service arrives after Iwaizumi finishes his shower, and they have a breakfast of sausages, rice and miso soup, with a plate of tamagoyaki to share. There’s a fruit bowl with yogurt that Hanamaki devours gleefully, and Matsukawa sneaks his share over to his tray.

He looks over to the veranda, where Iwaizumi had disappeared to immediately after finishing his food. He’s just barely hidden from view by the sliding doors and the curtains, but the wind blows and Matsukawa catches a glimpse of a view that’s starting to become familiar: Iwaizumi with a troubled look on his face, his phone to his ear.

His mouth sets into a thin line, the curiosity gnawing at him, along with the desire to punch out whoever put that forlorn expression on Iwaizumi’s face.

“I know you sorta don’t want us meddling,” Hanamaki whispers beside him, crawling up into Matsukawa’s space so he won’t be heard, “but I talked to Oikawa last night. It’s not him. He says it’s one of Hajime’s newer clients. Kindaichi…? I think was his name.”

Matsukawa quirks an eyebrow at that, but nothing else. It’s not a name he’s heard before, and he wonders what this man could possibly be like to get Iwaizumi this sad. Hanamaki whines low in his throat. Matsukawa shakes his head. He knows it’s practically torture for Hanamaki to wait, but Matsukawa has always valued patience, always understood the virtue of letting time run its course.

So when Iwaizumi walks back in Matsukawa stays quiet, but parts his legs invitingly and takes comfort in the fact that Iwaizumi almost automatically slides into his space, lies with his back against Matsukawa’s chest and stays there, melts into Matsukawa’s embrace when it comes.

Iwaizumi feels heavy, feels weighted down and defeated and for a moment Matsukawa remembers him curled inside thick blankets and miserably chewing on popcorn, and he can’t help but hold him tighter, press a kiss into his hair.

He wants to tell him _Don’t worry_ , but what good did that do for him the last time?

 

-

 

**03 JULY 2016**  
**04:50**

Matsukawa knew this was a bad idea.

He’d said as much, tried to pull Hanamaki back, tried to grab for his elbow even as he strode for their car, ready to drive to Iwaizumi’s apartment with or without Matsukawa in tow. In the end, Matsukawa had gotten into the driver’s seat, because he knew that he was probably the only thing that could keep two opposing forces at bay.

The apartment was empty, even at three in the morning, when Iwaizumi would usually be home at two, and admittedly that got Matsukawa’s heart racing too, got him trying for Iwaizumi’s phone in the spaces when Hanamaki’s fingers shook too badly to press the call button.

Then Iwaizumi came in, the first words out of his mouth sharp and burning, and all Matsukawa’s hopes of playing the mediator flew out the window.

Would it have helped if Iwaizumi had been a little less defensive? If Hanamaki had kept his temper on a shorter leash? Would it have helped if any one of them was less tired, less angry, less hurt?

Maybe.

Not like that matters now, Matsukawa thinks bitterly.

He chokes on every breath, feels like a prisoner in his own body. His hands are held out, hovering in front of his face but they don’t feel like they’re _his_. He tries to move, tries to flex his fingers, but all he gets it a vague rush of sensation. He glances to the side where a mirror is fitted on the wall, and sees his father.

He can’t breathe. He feels bile rise up to the back of his throat but he holds it in, curls up on himself and feels like he’s a young child all over again, in pain and alone and so, so afraid.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh still echoes in his mind, a sound he’d hoped he’d never have to hear again, but there it was, brought upon by his own hand. The look on Iwaizumi’s face is clear as day, burned in the back of his eyelids, haunting him, judging him.

He sobs, soundless as it scrapes out of his mouth. He doesn’t know how to fix this.

_Your fault your faultyourfaultyourfaultYOURFAUL—_

“Issei.”

Matsukawa’s eyes open, dilated pupils zeroing in on the fine fabric of the carpet beneath his feet. His chest is heaving, but each heavy inhale carries with it the smell of flowers, something full-bodied and roasted alongside it. Tea.

The floor creaks under Hanamaki’s approaching weight, and Matsukawa uncurls, if only a little, lets Hanamaki fit his hand around a steaming mug, warm to the touch, something to anchor him back to reality. Vaguely, he feels chapped lips press against the skin of his knuckles. He shivers, wants to pull away. He doesn’t deserve this kindness. This love. He tries to take his hand back but he still can’t move.

They stay. They stay until the fragrance of dried flowers sinks into their lungs and fades out into nothing.

They stay like that until Matsukawa musters up the courage to glance at the mirror, only to find himself staring right back.

 

-

 

**11 JULY 2016**  
**20:18**

They’re pink from the onsen and the sake they had room service bring up, loose-limbed and curled up on the corner of the room where the air conditioning hits just right. The alcohol is not a brand Matsukawa has tried before but it settles pleasantly sweet and warm in his stomach and he can’t help but reach for another bottle.

“Get me one too?” Hanamaki implores from beside him, angled so that he’s hugging Matsukawa like a body pillow. Matsukawa obliges, handing the bottle out for Hanamaki to take while he flicks the bottle opener out from his swiss knife, twisting the cap off with one hand.

He already forgets whose idea it was to even get drunk like this. They spent the whole day exploring more of the area, taking photos at cliffsides and shouting random sentiments if only to chuckle in awe as the mountains echo their words. Tomorrow night they’ll be on their way back. Matsukawa and Hanamaki back to their shared apartment, Iwaizumi back to his work.

Tomorrow night, it’ll seem like all of this was just some wondrous fever dream.

Iwaizumi is perched on the windowsill, still damp in places where he neglected to wipe, towel draped over his head like a wimple. He looks pensive, drawing random characters with the breath misting on the glass. His other hand is holding onto his phone, tilting the screen up every now and then, like he’s waiting for something.

“Hajime?”

He doesn’t realize he’d said it until it hits him that Iwaizumi’s looking right at him, eyes a little dim from the beer, blinking at him curiously. He lifts the hand that isn’t trapped under Hanamaki’s weight and uses it to wave Iwaizumi over, keeps it in the air until Iwaizumi comes close enough to touch.

He thinks he’s grateful that he left no marks, that the slap wasn’t strong enough to bruise. Some part of it thinks he deserves to see the fruit of his recklessness, some form of self-flagellation. His hand and vision begin to tremble and the world only clears when Iwaizumi himself leans in to fit his cheek over his hand, the very same cheek that Matsukawa had left reddened with the force of his rage.

He almost flinches away, but Iwaizumi’s hands come up and curl around his wrists. Gentle and warm.

“I know.” Iwaizumi says, even though Matsukawa hasn’t said a thing. “It’s okay. I know.”

And Matsukawa bites his tongue, if only to keep from crying.

“I’m sorry.” he says anyway, because Iwaizumi deserves to hear it.

“ _We’re_ sorry.” Hanamaki slips in, voice just as heavy, crawling forward to press the top of his head against Iwaizumi’s arm like a dejected pet, and Iwaizumi cups his chin, tilts him up to hug him properly. The hand on Matsukawa’s wrist trails down to his elbow and it’s tugging him in too, and they curl up together on the floor, haloed by amber bottles. All three of them. Together. As they’ve always been. As they should be.

Matsukawa feels wetness where his cheek is pressed against Iwaizumi’s face, and he frowns, tilts his head just enough for his lips to reach skin, tears, kissing away what he can, even as Iwaizumi tucks his chin into his neck, hiccupping.

“We’re okay?” he asks, whimpers more like.

“Yes.” Matsukawa answers, firm and in sync with Hanamaki. “We’re here. We’re not leaving.”

He seals that with a kiss, soft and chaste on Iwaizumi’s cheek, and he thinks Hanamaki does the same, because then here’s a giggle, a radiant smile splitting Iwaizumi’s lips, and suddenly the world is a more beautiful place.

 

-

 

**12 JULY 2016**  
**09:23**

“Do you have work today?”

Matsukawa turns from where he’s folding his bedclothes, raising an eyebrow at Hanamaki, who’s sitting on the edge of Iwaizumi’s futon. Iwaizumi’s just shoving his used clothes into his duffel, still sleep-stupid and cranky as he always tends to be in the morning.

“No. I said I’d be out until tonight. I report in tomorrow.” Iwaizumi trails off with a yawn.

Hanamaki hums thoughtfully, and Matsukawa wonders if maybe he should help out, but the last thing Iwaizumi needs is to feel like they’re crowding him, so he stays put, pretends he’s not even paying attention to the conversation.

“If you don’t mind,” Hanamaki starts, then stammers, “Or I mean…” he scratches the back of his neck, “If it’s alright…”

Matsukawa blinks at his unusual indecisiveness, wonders if he should step in, but then Hanamaki slams his hands down on the soft sheets.

“We’d like to go.” he says, too fast, but completely sincere. “We haven’t seen you dance in a while, Hajime. I kinda miss it.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze is downcast, fingers anxiously digging into the rolled-up t-shirt in his hands.

“I can just…I dunno give you a private show in my apartment or something.”

“But it’s not the same, is it?”

Iwaizumi freezes just around the same time Matsukawa does. It’s not. Matsukawa and Hanamaki entering that club will represent much more than just them wanting to see Iwaizumi dance again.

It won’t be enough, Matsukawa knows. It won’t be enough to make up for all those months they spent consciously ostracizing him, making it as clear as possible how much they don’t approve of his work, all the while ignoring how happy it obviously makes him. They might not have abandoned Iwaizumi, but they might as well have, with how they haven’t supported him at all when he needed them the most.

It’s not enough, but it’s a good start.

The silence drags on worryingly long, but Matsukawa commends how well Hanamaki’s patience holds. He doesn’t even move, just sits there and looks at Iwaizumi and waits, face tinted with expectation.

“I usually do solo shows on Fridays.” Iwaizumi finally says, slowly, delicately, like he’s afraid they’ll rush out with the wrong words. “If you’re free, I can get you good seats.”

Iwaizumi almost doesn’t finish the sentence. Hanamaki’s already launching forward, tackling Iwaizumi into a hug and pressing their cheeks together. Iwaizumi squawks, but falls under Hanamaki’s (barely) greater weight.

“Am I allowed to cheer? No promises on being able to stop myself from screaming _that’s my best frien_ —mpmph!”

“I change my mind.” Iwaizumi hisses, one hand extended and shoved in Hanamaki’s face. “Your ass is banned.”

Hanamaki whines, cages Iwaizumi in and shakes him by the waist, dodging Iwaizumi’s elbows. Iwaizumi keeps trying to knock him back but there’s a smile on his face that’s brighter than the sun shining outside the window, and Matsukawa can’t help it; he drops everything and jumps in to join the pile, digging his fingers in the ticklish valleys of soft skin between ribs, grinning at the shrieks of laughter and smiles squished against his neck.

The shadow of Iwaizumi’s anxious face still doesn’t fade completely, the silhouette of his figure on the veranda, phone pressed to his ear, but Matsukawa tries not to let it bother him, tries to focus on the fact that Iwaizumi’s happy, right now.

For now, at least, everything’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so uhh... I know this is very late and I'm so sorry, life has been crazy (in all the good ways)
> 
> last chapter coming up! Should I add a bonus smut chapter in the end? We'll see :))
> 
> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/160588849176/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-11-interlude) for chapter 11


	12. baby we're just reckless kids

**13 JULY 2016**  
**02:36**

He hasn’t been to this park in a long time.

It looks different when it’s not lit up by the fairy lights of the Christmas season, when it’s not pink with the fresh blooms of spring. The moon is full but the night is cold and unforgiving, the streetlamps sparse but bright in the black mirror of puddles, and they light Iwaizumi’s way as he rushes to the meeting place, past the still river and the naked trees and into an open field where the old, dilapidated train stands.

The locomotive is as unimpressive as ever, still and gray as death, but even in the darkness Iwaizumi sees the figure sitting on the steps, curled up around himself and unmoving.

His steps slow to a terrified stop. Kindaichi’s question over the phone rings louder in his mind. _What are we?_

He’d known. He’d known for a while that Kindaichi was already feeling this way about him, but he hadn’t known what to do about it. If it were anyone else he’d have put a stop to it the moment he saw that look in Kindaichi’s eyes; that pure, unadulterated adoration, tinged with something sweet and warm and entirely innocent.

But instead he’d let it continue, encouraged its growth. He hadn’t denied or acknowledged it, but he had ignored it, dangling Kindaichi by a thread like he expected him to stay there and wait until Iwaizumi got bored, or comes to terms with his own emotions.

He hadn’t quite expected the guilt to hit him as hard as it did, but he knew then that he couldn’t just talk any of _this_ over through the phone, that this is far too personal and Kindaichi has become so much more to him that whatever this is, whatever they’ve become, Iwaizumi wants to settled it in person.

The gate is like winter under his palm but he pays it little mind, vaulting over the railings and landing on the leaf-strewn gravel. They crunch beneath his boots and Iwaizumi’s breath catches when the other person’s head jerks up.

It’s Kindaichi—Kindaichi with his messy hair and puffy eyes and cheeks pink from the cold, with a red-accented canvas jacket that Iwaizumi remembers pushing off his broad shoulders and dropping to the floor of his dressing room, his mouth that now forming around a silent call of his name— _Iwaizumi-san?_.

Iwaizumi’s mouth hangs just a little too open, eyes open just a little too wide. He feels choked up, like he has far too much to say and they’re all trying to rush out at the same time, clogging up in his throat. He can’t even move, locked in the cusp of movement—to do _what_ exactly? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

He thinks Kindaichi doesn’t either, because he’s just sitting there, arms curled a little looser around himself but still there, like a barrier, like a shield; body wound tight with a defensive edge that Iwaizumi hasn’t seen since their first meeting.

The cold of the night sinks just that much farther into him, right down to his very bones, the pit of his stomach.

He takes a step forward, and it feels much like the very first step he took, the very first time he danced.

“Kindaichi.” Iwaizumi starts, and the second step comes a little easier, but the words don’t.

He takes one more step. Another. One after the other until the distance between him and Kindaichi isn’t as infinite, until he’s close enough to touch, if only Iwaizumi has the courage to extend his hand.

He’s no stranger to this feeling: having something he wants so, so much dangled right in front of him, all the while his hands remain shackled to his sides, weighed down by fate and random circumstance and the weight of a heart too weary to hope.

He doesn’t move, but he watches Kindaichi’s lashes flutter the slightest, shift along with his gaze until their eyes finally meet, and he breathes. Inhale. Exhale. And begins to speak.

“Kindaichi, I—”

 

-

 

**12 JULY 2016**  
**09:30**

“—love you.”

He’s lying between Hanamaki and Matsukawa, hair mussed, the skin over his ribs sore from when Matsukawa got a little carried away. Hanamaki’s still drawing out the syllable, lips puckering with the last vowel and Iwaizumi lets him kiss a cheek, draws the line when he starts to blow a raspberry.

“Love you too.” Iwaizumi responds, though he pretends to gag a little at the end of it. His elbow gets a pinch but nothing else.

Matsukawa’s quiet. Not his usual silence. Since the trip started there’d been something too deliberate, too careful in the way he carried himself. Iwaizumi thinks it was fear, guilt, or maybe a bit of both. He’s a bit more normal now, not afraid to roughhouse with him like he always does, but Iwaizumi finally snaps when he glances up at him only to catch a glimpse of _something_ just before Matsukawa’s face purposefully shifts to neutrality, trying too hard to pretend he wasn’t just busy dissecting him with his eyes.

He lands a playful punch to Matsukawa’s chin. “What?”

“What what?”

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. Hanamaki hooks his chin over his shoulder, looking a little too thoughtful for Iwaizumi’s comfort.

“He’s just worried, Hajime.”

He thinks a dirty look has just been thrown over his head—fuck being best friends with lamp posts, he’s not even _short_ dammit—because Hanamaki’s shrugging, an indignant look on his face that drops with Iwaizumi’s heavy sigh. He sits up, stares at a spot on the wall where the wallpaper’s just beginning to fray, chews the inside of his cheek.

Hanamaki sits up beside him, and he can’t really see because he’s trying not to, but a hand comes up on his thigh, and Iwaizumi huffs out a shaky breath. Breathes in. Tries again.

“You already know about some of my…unorthodox clients, right?”

He never mentions any clients by name, unless they approve of it like Oikawa does, the hedonist. It’s all part of the confidentiality of the lifestyle. There’s a reason why their club isn’t easy to get into, why they have so many precautions and protocols and protectors. Society doesn’t take kindly to the needs of some of the people who come to see Iwaizumi. Some of them need to close their hands around a supple throat and squeeze, some of them need to see tears, need to inflict pain, need a partner cum-stained and trembling beneath them with their lips forming around pleas and apologies and _thank you, sir, thank you so much_.

And all of them are good men. Kind men. Men who are scared and unsure and just need reassurance and a partner willing to talk it through with them and play along. Iwaizumi doesn’t mind—likes it, in fact—but he knows the rest of the world won’t be so forgiving.

“You mean the freaky ones?” Hanamaki asks, purely casual and flippant. Iwaizumi only rolls his eyes.

“One of them booked a session with me last Saturday.” Iwaizumi starts. “It was all consensual, we had a talk before it all started, but most of the uhh…dialogue and the roleplay and stuff is pretty much winging it.”

Matsukawa nods. Hanamaki’s idle strokes on his leg slow to a stop.

“He brought up one of my newer regulars, acting jealous and possessive, so I was saying some stuff, y’know to get him going.” he continues. “Like how he’s the better fuck and the other guy can’t compare or whatever.”

“Oh you mean like what I say to Taka all the time— _ow!_ ”

“ _Continue_.” Hanamaki grits out, turning his glacial smile towards Iwaizumi, hand just coming down after smacking Matsukawa upside the head.

“Well, the guy,” Iwaizumi continues without a hitch, “the new regular, the one I was…sort of…talking shit about was just outside the door.”

“Doesn’t he know it’s just roleplay?” Hanamaki asks, frowning slightly.

“He’s new. And to be honest he might not even know about the,” Iwaizumi pauses, licks his lips, trying to find a delicate term for this, “the _special_ services I offer. Probably assumed was that it was all real, so he ran off.”

“Is that why you’ve been on your phone a lot?”

Iwaizumi turns to Matsukawa, who immediately brings his hands up in defense at his suspicious stare.

“I just wanted to explain.” Iwaizumi’s lips thin out, fingers twitching for his phone, wanting to try again even though he’s already failed so many times. Kindaichi at least deserves that much. “Apologize too. Most of the shit I said was pretty…”

“Why would he be upset though?” Hanamaki huffs. “Sounds like he got a little too,” he makes a circle around his heart like he’s five years old and _emotion_ is a bad word that he’s trying to mime, “Thought you didn’t like clients like that.”

“I don’t.” Iwaizumi shakes his head. “But he’s different.”

When the wait for a response draws out too long, Iwaizumi looks up, blinking at the mirroring looks of confusion and shock on Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s faces.

“Oh no.” Hanamaki gasps, hands coming up to clutch his face. “Where have I heard this before”

 _What?_ Iwaizumi wants to say, but Matsukawa beats him to it with a “That drama you watch every night before bed?”

“Bingo.” Hanamaki winks at Matsukawa, then turns to Iwaizumi with a stern expression without even a visible transition. “Tell me about this new client of yours.”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth almost automatically then shuts it right before the first syllable can jump out. What does he say? What _can_ he say about Kindaichi?

He can tell them about the way his hands shook around Iwaizumi the very first time they met, like he knows he has no right to touch another person so intimately, even though Iwaizumi is quite literally his birthday present. He can tell them about the way Kindaichi’s eyes lit up in defiance when Iwaizumi joked about his self-deprecation, the way his voice firmed up and said _You’re a person_. He can tell them about all those nights Kindaichi came over just to talk, those nights they whispered under the sheets about the hopes and dreams and the families they no longer have. He can tell them about the selfies and the texts and the calls that immediately make his day, that make him feel warm in all the right ways.

He can tell them about the night it all went wrong, how sick and anxious he felt because he’d _hurt_ Kindaichi when all Kindaichi had ever done was care for him.

He looks up, meets their expectant faces and it hits him that his palms are clammy and his heart is beating inexplicably fast, and when he nervously brings his hand to his face it’s fever-hot.

He can tell them so, so much about Kindaichi, but he knows they’re waiting for a very specific answer.

The answer that he’d just been trying so hard to keep hidden, keep buried for _weeks_. And now the pressure of everything he’d locked away peaks, bursts through the dam, and the tsunami sweeps him away in an unforgiving storm of realizations.

“Oh god.” Iwaizumi gaps, his voice scarily small, tight in his throat.

 

-

 

**13 JULY 2016**  
**02:42**

“Iwaizumi-san.”

And just as quickly as it had come, Iwaizumi’s words and courage spring back down to his stomach. Kindaichi’s eyes are also wide, lips pressed tight together in a perfect mirror of Iwaizumi’s expression.

They’d spoken at exactly the same time, and now they’d clammed up at the exact same time too, the sudden silence slamming down between them like an iron gate.

Iwaizumi fumbles for his courage again, something he’s already sick and tired of doing. He’s better than this. He’s been through hell and back and came out the other end asking for another go. He can fucking do this.

He opens his mouth again, his jaw prying apart like the hinges are rusted, but all of a sudden Kindaichi’s standing, wind whooshing with the movement and it takes Iwaizumi aback because the kid acts so small, so young, that it’s so easy to forget that he towers over Iwaizumi, but here he is now, looking down at him with such uncharacteristic intensity that Iwaizumi feels a shiver trickle down his spine.

For the past month he’d trained himself to be acutely aware of every expression, every facial tic and what emotion they correspond to, Kindaichi’s face has none of the usual predictability, the usual openness, and when he opens his mouth, Iwaizumi, for a brief moment, actually feels scared.

“What are we?”

Iwaizumi blinks. Kindaichi’s looking at him, but his gaze starts to waver, eyes trembling in their sockets.

“What are we, Iwaizumi-san?” he says again, softer. “What am I to you?”

Kindaichi’s head falls, blocking his expression, but Iwaizumi can see the glimmer of tears on his lashes. “I know it’s stupid. I know it’s not—that I shouldn’t have—” he breathes deep, shaky and fragile, “but you were so _perfect_ —”

And here Iwaizumi wants to interrupt, wants to tell him _no, Kindaichi, no I’m not_ but he holds it in. Doesn’t dare to interrupt this moment.

“All the things you said—the way you kissed me and—” Kindaichi shakes his head violently, then looks up, hands reaching to cover his eyes. “Fuck I know I’m not making much sense— _god_ —”

“Kindaichi.” Iwaizumi calls, voice as gentle as he can make it, but even then Kindaichi flinches, standing unnaturally still in the wake of his voice.

“Kin…Kindaichi, look at me. Please.”

Kindaichi whines, soft and high in the back of his throat and when he speaks he sounds like he’s a breath away from breaking down.

“Just tell me. Please. Please I need to know because…”

“Kindaichi,” Iwaizumi interrupts, hand cupped on Kindaichi’s cheek. Because he can’t do this. Not like this. “ _look at me_.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Kindaichi takes a deep breath, lets his hands drop down to his sides and lets Iwaizumi angle his head back down. Their eyes lock, and Kindaichi’s brown eyes are bright with tears, gleaming at the edges of his lids.

“Because I think I like you, Iwaizumi-san.” he says, voice petering out into harsh little whispers like his courage is slowly whittling down to the reserves. “And I don’t know what to do about that.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clicks shut. There it is. He didn’t really think it would ever happen; Kindaichi taking the first step, having the courage to be upfront with his feelings before Iwaizumi can even bring it up. Now he’s looking at Iwaizumi, searching his face for an answer, a hint even. What does he say?

He hadn’t thought this far.

“I’m sorry I know I’m _sorry_ ,” Kindaichi says, and Iwaizumi realizes he’s stayed silent for too long. He tries to look down, but Iwaizumi’s grip holds, and all he can do is close his eyes. “I know it’s pathetic and—god you don’t even have to answer you can just leave and pretend this never happened I’m so sor—”

Iwaizumi stops thinking. Smashes down his hesitation and fear by grabbing Kindaichi by the front of his stupid canvas jacket and kissing him right on the mouth.

It’s clumsy. Inelegant. Nothing at all like how he was taught but it’s the most passionate kiss he ever gave, ever shared, and when Kindaichi gets over the shock and opens his mouth, cups a hand behind Iwaizumi’s head, around his neck, and pulls him in, Iwaizumi thinks he might actually have found heaven.

He can’t quite recall, can’t quite remember how, or when exactly, but in the slow stream of days between meeting Kindaichi in that purple-lit booth and now, kissing him underneath orange streetlamps, he became more than just a client, more than just a kindred spirit. He remembers some days—days when he’s too vulnerable and tired and more unable to mute out the voices in his head—how hard it was to look at Kindaichi and not slip further down the slippery slope of his own feelings, how easily he’d muddled up the lines Iwaizumi had spent months drawing in the sands of his mind. He remembers those nights, thinking of Kindaichi wondering what it would be like if they met under very different circumstances; at some nondescript location in some inconsequential time. Would they have had a chance? Would it have been easier?

Would they have done this earlier? Would they have done this at all?

Kindaichi pulls away, too soon, but his hands stay on Iwazumi’s neck, the dip of his waist, and even with the turtleneck, he can feel the heat of Kindaichi’s touch, searing brands across his skin. He’s breathing erratically, grip spasming. There’s a blush high on his cheeks and hope glowing in his eyes, but his face is mostly slack in shock.

“Iwa—What—”

“I love you.” Iwaizumi says and it slips out so naturally, forms so easily on his tongue to moment he looks up at Kindaichi and drives tingles straight down to the tips of his toes and fingers and suddenly his cheeks are hurting because he’s smiling so hard.

Kindaichi’s eyes are wide, comically so, and Iwaizumi laughs, melts halfway into a sob and rests his forehead on the crest of his collarbones. Kindaichi holds him closer, his mouth dropping to the top of Iwaizumi’s head.

“You do?” Kindaichi breathes, voice still thin with shock, his breath parting Iwaizumi’s hair. “You love me?”

“Yes.” Iwaizumi says, louder now, “I think…” he shakes his head. There’s no _I think_ or _Maybe_ about it. Only certainty. “I’m sure I’ve loved you for a while now.”

Kindaichi sags with something like relief, like joy, and pulls Iwaizumi tight against him, unconsciously tugging up, almost so that Iwaizumi’s heels are lifted off the floor.

Iwaizumi laughs, patting Kindaichi’s arm so he’ll let him down. He does, eventually, but he doesn’t let go. Keeps his cheek pressed on top of Iwaizumi’s hair and practically bends at the waist so that they’re pressed as compact as possible. Iwaizumi can’t help but imagine an overly-affectionate, oversized pup.

They bask in the atmosphere a little longer, until Kindaichi’s fingers start to move around, plucking the neckline of Iwaizumi’s sweater in a fretful sort of motion. His head is shifting, and instead of his cheek Iwaizumi feels lips on the top of his head. He thinks Kindaichi wants to kiss (no complaints here) but is too shy to ask for it, or doesn’t want to let him go.

He wants to continue, explore this new dynamic between them a little further, see what new doors it opens for them; but the voice that was muted by the joy and elation of reciprocated feelings suddenly comes roaring back full-force, the guilt along with it, and when he looks up at Kindaichi he remembers the phone calls and texts that went unanswered, the weight of his phone in his pocket suddenly like a stone dragging him underwater.

Kindaichi’s already looking at his lips, his own pressing into a thin line, a tongue peeking out as if in preparation. Iwaizumi stops him before he can lean in, prompting a confused little sound. He takes a breath in preparation, the thought that Kindaichi still loves him, even after the misunderstanding making the slide of the confession easier.

“About last Saturday,” he starts, and immediately Kindaichi’s face shifts to terrifying blankness again, “I’m sorry you had to hear that, but please believe me when I say none of it was real.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes squeeze shut, feeling the bile and heat at the back of his throat at the memory of his own words, fake as they were.

“What you heard, that was just roleplay I didn’t mean any of it—”

“So he wasn’t any good?”

Iwaizumi blinks, mouth snapping shut so fast he almost bites his tongue. Kindaichi’s staring at him with a mildly interested look. This isn’t what Iwaizumi expected at all.

“What?”

“You were—” Kindaichi blushes and turns away. Scratches his cheek. “You were saying something about how he was good and something. And you sounded like you were really…enjoying it.”

“That’s all?” Iwaizumi cuts off, because Kindaichi looks about ready to pass out from embarrassment, but mostly because his own embarrassment is beginning to creep in, manifesting as a fever-hot blush on his cheeks. “You didn’t—Why did you run off then?”

“Well when you have feelings for someone and walk in on them with someone else like that,” Kindaichi says, the edge of a defensive whine in his tone. “Ok I know it sounds stupid considering your job and of course I kinda knew that you do that with your other clients too but seeing it just…I dunno my body just kinda moved on its own—”

Kindaichi’s saying something but Iwaizumi’s already burrowing his face into his jacket if only to hide how much his face is burning, a low, drawn-out groan rolling from his throat. Kindaichi nudges his arms delicately, asking what’s wrong, but Iwaizumi’s still too busy mentally banging his head against a wall. God he’s so stupid. They’re both so stupid.

He takes a deep breath, lets Kindaichi’s scent calm him a bit, clear his head. Kindaichi wisely stops talking, only awkwardly patting his back, smoothing large palms up and down.

Well, that’s one issue unexpectedly dealt with without a hitch, but Iwaizumi knows there’s one more elephant in the room they need to address. He takes another deep breath, shifts his head to the side so his voice isn’t muffled.

“We still have to talk about it though. My job, I mean.”

Kindaichi pulls back slightly. Iwaizumi can feel his stare boring into the top of his head.

“What’s there to talk about?” and now it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to look at him, “You don’t have to change anything, at your job. I mean…if you like what you do you can just keep doing what you want.”

Iwaizumi glares up at him. “If I’m going to do this with you, I’m not gonna be the only one calling the shots you know.”

Kindaichi frowns right back, equally determined. “I can’t dictate your life, Iwaizumi-san, that’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair to you either if what I’m doing is—”

“It’s fine really.” Kindaichi shrugs and there’s nothing forced about it, no lie hiding in his eyes. “I dunno I think of it like when an actor is married, and he has to do kissing scenes or sex scenes with another person for his job. I mean it’s just a job.”

“Of course.” Iwaizumi nods, too quick, fingers unconsciously flexing in Kindaichi’s jacket. “I…never really felt this way for anyone else.”

A blush explodes over Kindaichi’s face, his eyes growing even wider. His hands come up to hide his face again, and Iwaizumi pouts, grabs for his wrist and tries to pull his arms away.

“Please don’t say that.” Kindaichi whines, struggling against him, ears adorably pink.

“It’s the truth though.” Iwaizumi laughs, gives in and just kisses Kindaichi’s wrist, and laughs even louder when Kindaichi lowers them a little to expose his petulant glare. Too cute. “It’s all your fault, Kindaichi. Take responsibility.”

Kindaichi finally lets Iwaizumi expose his face, but it’s back to seriousness now, searching and careful. Iwaizumi blinks at him, tilts his head slightly and hums encouragingly.

Kindaichi’s gaze shifts nervously, mouth opening, then closing, then, “Why me?”

Iwaizumi blinks. Raises an eyebrow. “You complaining?”

“No! It’s just…” Kindaichi tugs his hands from Iwaizumi’s grip, and he’s not looking at him again, staring at the floor like it’s the most riveting thing. Iwaizumi follows his gaze and sees nothing but dead leaves. “You can do so much better and—”

“Stop that.” Iwaizumi snaps, drawing back and flicking Kindaichi’s earlobe, glare as frigid as ice even when Kindaichi flinches and stares at him with those pitiful puppy eyes. “I mean it. No more of that or I’ll punch you. I don’t care how cute that face is.”

Kindaichi’s still staring at him like a kicked puppy, all betrayed and confused, like he doesn’t even know why he was punished. Iwaizumi already feels the squeeze at his heart, chipping away the anger. God, he’s too soft for this kid. It’ll be hell once he finds out how bad Iwaizumi has it.

“If you want me to tell you why I fell in love with you, I will.” Iwaizumi whispers, letting a decidedly evil smirk crack his façade. “Just be prepared to be here until sunrise.”

Kindaichi groans, knees buckling like he wants to curl up on the floor to hide how much he’s blushing. Tough luck with those ears though, Iwaizumi thinks as he keeps him upright, grabbing at his biceps.

“You’re too much, really.” Kindaichi whines, finds a compromise by sagging against him, hooking his chin on his shoulder and tucking in close. Iwaizumi blows a teasing kiss on his jaw, their cheeks pressed together, breathing over each other’s skin.

A slight breeze whips over them, and Iwaizumi’s eyes snap open, ripped from the moment when a sudden thought hits him.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Boss gave me the day off.”

“How kind.” Iwaizumi chuckles, hides the huff of relief somewhere in it, brushes Kindaichi’s hair back where it’s fallen on his temple. “Do you wanna…I dunno, come home with me? I just—”

He wants to be close to Kindaichi, doesn’t think he’ll be able to let him out of his sight anytime soon, wants to have him settled in his arms and breathing against his skin just when he wakes up later just so he knows this isn’t all just a beautiful dream.

He doesn’t say any of that but he thinks Kindaichi understands, because he stands up straight, smiles and huffs a little laugh, kisses him once. Twice. Then again. Brief but sweet little presses of lips. Iwaizumi smiles between each one, thinks they should stop if they ever wanna get anywhere, because he’s been wanting this for so long that he doesn’t think his self-control will be much use if Kindaichi keeps looking at him like that, keeps kissing him like this, if his hands keep sliding lower.

“Okay.” Kindaichi says, but they don’t move, don’t break eye contact.

(Iwaizumi has a lot to thank his lucky stars for on this night, but more than anything he thinks he has to thank them for the fact that it’s late and dark enough that the chances of running into people are low, and that their jackets have collars high enough to hide the smattering of hickeys they left on each other before sprinting their way back to Iwaizumi’s apartment.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/161155832726/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-12-baby-were-just) for chapter 12
> 
> This story is essentially complete, but as promised, I’ll be making a bonus chapter. Highlights: Kageyama’s wedding (hint: Kunimi POV w a surprise guest), MatsuHana in the club, and IwaKin smut.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with my inconsistent ass through this, it’s literally my first fic that reached lengths like this and I’m so shook by all your support and love huhuhuhuhu
> 
> As a last gift, here's the playlist I had on for the entire fic:  
> 1\. VIXX - Dagaone (Almost There)  
> 2\. SEVENTEEN - Don't Wanna Cry  
> 3\. Taeyeon - 11:11  
> 4\. Taeyeon - Fine  
> 5\. Monsta X - Beautiful  
> 6\. Cash Cash ft. Bebe Rexha - Take Me Home  
> 7\. The Weeknd ft. Daft Punk - Starboy  
> 8\. Little Mix - Secret Love Song  
> 9\. Joel Adams - Don't Go  
> 10\. MAX - Lights Down Low  
> 11\. Bebe Rexha - I Got You  
> 12\. Conor Maybard - Cold Water (cover)  
> 13\. Ed Sheeran - Shape of You (Major Lazer remix ft. Nyla & Kranium)  
> 14\. Somo - The Hills (cover)  
> 15\. Cashmere Cat ft. Ariana Grande - Quit  
> 16\. BTS - Blood, Sweat, and Tears  
> 17\. BLACKPINK - Playing with Fire  
> 18\. DJ Snake ft. Justin Beiber - Let Me Love You  
> 19\. Mike Posner - I Took a Pill in Ibiza (Seeb remix)  
> 20\. Conor Maynard - I Took a Pill in Ibiza (cover)  
> 21\. Beyonce - Crazy in Love (50 Shades of Grey remix)  
> 22\. The Weeknd - Earned It  
> 23\. Usher ft. Juicy J - I Don't Mind  
> 24\. Charlie Puth ft. Selena Gomez - We Don’t Talk Anymore  
> 25\. SHINee - Tell Me What to Do


	13. you earned it

**22 JULY 2016**  
**22:28**  
**Hanamaki Takahiro**

They’re thoroughly checked before entering the club, frisked and asked to show their IDs and the complimentary slip Iwaizumi had given them a few days ago. Hanamaki waits for the secretary to finish clearing them in while checking the extensive blacklist on the wall beside the counter, Matsukawa standing beside him, his curious gaze also wandering this way and that.

“Security’s a bit tight for a strip club, isn’t it?” Matsukawa asks, and the secretary looks up at them, a hint of a secret in the glint of his grey eyes.

“Any respectable business takes all the measures necessary to protect their clients _and_ employees, Matsukawa-san.” he answers simply, sliding their IDs across the counter and holding out his hand for them to take, a stamp in the other.

They’re led into a narrow hallway, a flight of stairs at the end leading down. Hanamaki glances at the underside of his wrist, stares at the logo of the club glowing bright on his skin, almost doesn’t notice when a silver-haired boy waves at them at the end of the stairs.

“Iwaizumi-san’s guests?” he asks. Hanamaki nods dumbly, trying to politely keep his gaze on the boy’s face and not at the torso that was on full display, covered by nothing but a white leather straps spiderwebbing from a metal loop on his sternum. “Right this way.”

They enter just in time to see a dancer on the stage pluck a bill from an extended hand, the low strings of his song dying out into the vibrating silence. The silver-haired boy directs them to a stage-side seat, in the midst of all the high-rollers and right in front of the pole that’s being wiped down.

He leans back into the arm that Matsukawa stretches over the backrest. They’re on a seat just a little bigger than a normal armchair, probably ideal for a client and their pick of the night. Hanamaki doesn’t mind. Subtly, he takes in his surroundings, keeping his gaze just above Matsukawa’s shoulders. There’s alcohol being served, from plain amber drinks in stout glasses to colorful little shots, tall goblets with fruits and umbrellas sitting daintily on the rim. He hears the rustle of cash being passed around, the _click-clack_ of heels walking across glass tiles. There’s muted conversation and the occasional moan and giggle from the curtained booths and the slow dance of smoke all across the club.

Even with the casual, easy atmosphere, there are still bouncers everywhere, slunk in dark corners where they’re mostly invisible. Hanamaki counts about five of them that he can see, thinks back on Iwaizumi’s _I’m in a good place. A_ really _good place_ and finally starts to believe it.

He closes his eyes and inhales the smoky atmosphere, burnt tobacco and expensive perfume making a rather heady—and, admittedly, arousing—cocktail. He noses into Matsukawa’s shirt and sniffs a bit of the cool notes of his perfume, contrastingly bright and fresh.

“I don’t remember giving you any catnip.” Matsukawa chuckles, and suddenly there’s a hand on the back of his head, fingertips scratching his scalp. “Don’t get too worked up before the main act.”

“Was just looking around.” Hanamaki huffs, stops his purring to glare at his boyfriend.

“Sure didn’t _sound_ like it.” Matsukawa teases a little more. Hanamaki huffs, crossing his legs just in time for the next song to roll in.

Matsukawa’s hand twitches where it’s still loose on the back of his neck, but just then all the lights suddenly die out, and the music fizzles to an awkward stop.

Matsukawa’s arm is around his shoulders in a second, and Hanamaki’s hand grabs his thigh. Hanamaki squints through the darkness, surprisingly hears no hint of murmuring or panic. He can’t even hear breathing besides his own. All hint of movement has stopped, as if in waiting.

Then, he hears it, a low, faint bass. A man’s voice, mumbling. English probably. Percussion.

Another beat drops and suddenly the striplights on the edges of the stages light up a neon teal. Hanamaki looks up and there’s a figure on stage, the lights licking the curves and muscles of his silhouette, the hint of sheer fabric draped over his shoulders. All around him eyes are suddenly bright and attentive. Dimly, he sees the dancer bring a finger to his lips. The music hushes to another stop. The striplights go dark—

—then the entire club comes alive again, music coming up full blast, lights back on and swinging, neon stripes dancing all across the floor, the stage, the dancer’s body, legs all wrapped up on the pole and back arched in a perfect curve, one arm extended back theatrically.

Hanamaki doesn’t know why it hits him so belatedly, but when it finally clicks that the dancer is actually _Iwaizumi_ , he hurries to pick his jaw up from the floor.

He looks so _different_ , Hanamaki thinks, with the colored lips and the smoked-out eyes, the glow of neon over his glitter-dusted skin. He has a chiffon robe on, tied at the waist with black silk, and it does nothing to cover up the strappy bralette, the leather skirt with the garters trailing beneath it, clipping his stockings up.

Iwaizumi slides down and off the pole, tugs the silk knot loose and shakes the robe off his shoulders but keeps it on, hanging teasingly on his elbows as he turns around and shakes his ass, rolls it in tight little circles in time with the music.

Hanamaki stares a little longer, slightly enamored, mostly enchanted, and just past the glamour and glitter and all the lights and seduction, he finds Iwaizumi. The _old_ Iwaizumi, the same one that danced just like this because he’d been dared to. At some house party from high school where he was ushered on a table with stripclub music playing from tinny speakers. He was having fun then and he’s still having fun now. The same glint shines in his eyes, only it’s brighter now, no shroud of self-consciousness and doubt that always used to haunt him, even when he’s dancing better than all the people in high school.

He dances with the utmost confidence, like he has no doubt that he looks good. His pelvis rolls like it isn’t even solid, movements smooth and flexible as he transitions from one step to another and Hanamaki has never felt for Iwaizumi this way before (he might have, at some point far, far in the past) but how he looks now makes Hanamaki’s tongue go dry.

He uncrosses his legs, crosses it the other way with some difficulty and shuffling. Matsukawa elbows his ribs. He hisses at him to _shut up_ , ignoring the returning _didn't even say anything_.

The song seems to go forever, but even when it finally slows to a stop it doesn’t feel enough. Iwaizumi ends the song with a pose, and Hanamaki knows they’re probably not supposed to do it, but he claps anyway, Matsukawa following suit.

“That’s my best friend!” he cheers, pumps his fist in the air. Even under the warm spotlights he catches how Iwaizumi’s neck burns red in embarrassment. Iwaizumi makes a face, putting a hand up and waving it about, probably a gesture to stop.

Hanamaki relents, only because he notices one of the bouncers take a warning step in their direction. Iwaizumi’s collecting the tips, blowing a kiss to every generous patron, adding a wink whenever someone gives a generous amount. Matsukawa inches forward with a thousand yen note and Iwaizumi laughs a little, mouths _cheapskate_ at him, but takes it anyway, blowing a kiss at both of them.

(Hanamaki thinks Iwaizumi looks like he’s about to cry, the lights reflecting off too-wet eyes, and it makes his heart hurt. He knows it’s their fault. He wants nothing more than to go back in time and whack his and Matsukawa’s past selves over the head and call them out for being awful friends but he can’t.

They have a lot to make up for.)

Iwaizumi picks up his robe from the floor and blows one last kiss to the crowd. Hanamaki doesn’t fail to pretend to catch it, and pats himself on the back when Iwaizumi doesn’t even bother to hide his laughter.

 

-

 

**22 JULY 2016**  
**22:43**  
**Iwaizumi Hajime**

Iwaizumi walks the familiar path to his dressing room, feeling all sorts of warm and giddy. The memory of Hanamaki and Matsukawa clapping for him, Hanamaki’s promised cheer of _that’s my best friend_ echoing through the club’s interior, Matsukawa’s proud grin—

He giggles, realizes too late that he did so out loud, covers his mouth and runs from the dancer staring at him with wide, nervous eyes and hurries the rest of the way to his room.

He opens the door and shuts it immediately behind him, the ruckus alerting Kindaichi, who looks up from his phone with that adorably confused look on his face.

“Hi baby.” Iwaizumi coos, in far too soft of a mood right now. Kindaichi notices but doesn’t point anything out (smart man) instead just drops his phone on the nightstand, opening his arms wide for Iwaizumi to crawl into.

“Went well?” Kindaichi asks, though Iwaizumi can tell that it’s more for politeness than anything. Kindaichi’s already smiling proudly at him, hand affectionately stroking the small of his back, fingers trailing lazily.

Iwaizumi only hums a low affirmative, leaning in to plant a kiss on Kindaichi’s lips. And another. Kindaichi’s hands soon grow more daring, cupping over his leather-clad ass, pulling the skirt up to reach more skin, opening his mouth to invite Iwaizumi’s tongue over—

Kindaichi’s phone buzzes. And again. On the third buzz Iwaizumi lifts up off of his boyfriend to grab the device from the nightstand, glaring at the unending stream of texts from _Kageyama Tobio_.

“Sorry about that.” Kindaichi groans, taking the phone when Iwaizumi hands it over. “He’s not usually this demanding.”

Iwaizumi grunts, but rolls off Kindaichi without much complaint. “What’s up with him anyway?”

“His wedding’s in a few months.” Kindaichi mutters, typing something quickly before shutting his phone, tossing it aside and stretching out to slip an arm under Iwaizumi’s head. “He’s starting to stress out about all the details. Flights, accommodation, food, cake, suits. All that stuff.”

“Flights?” Iwaizumi asks, brow rising, then it hits him a split-second later. “You never mentioned your boss is gay.”

“Well the past weeks we’ve always been too busy fucki—”

“Shut up, I was making up for lost time.” Iwaizumi huffs, putting down the hand he’d smacked Kindaichi’s chin with. “And besides, we talked a lot in between.”

Kindaichi angles his head to give him an incredulous stare. “Why would I talk about my boss when I’m in bed with _you_?”

Iwaizumi frowns. Reaches up to pinch Kindaichi’s nose between two fingers. “You weren’t this mouthy before. What happened? Have I created a monster?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t expect the smirk. Doesn’t expect the intoxicatingly sexy curve of his lips and the little flash of teeth. Kindaichi sits up a little and it’s only then Iwaizumi realizes that three of his buttons are undone and he’s wearing nothing underneath.

“You like it, Iwa—” he bites his lip, licks it, leaving it gleaming with spit and more magnetizing than ever.

“Hajime.” he corrects, whispers, husky and deep in the way that sends tingles right between his legs. His palm is hot as it slides down Iwaizumi’s ribs, thumb sneaking underneath the garter of the bralette. His plants a soft, chaste kiss on Iwaizumi’s collarbone, nips a little, then that tongue finally peeks out to lap at the skin between the straps, licking a path down to his cleavage.

“Damn straight, Yuutarou.” Iwaizumi gasps, makes sure to roll the syllables on his tongue, squirming in the cotton sheets when Kindaichi bites his nipple through the lace in revenge, eyes sliding half-shut as he grips the back of Kindaichi’s head, pulls him up to meet his gaze. “Now why don’t you show me what else that mouth can do?”

 

-

 

**22 JULY 2016**  
**22:48**  
**Kindaichi Yuutarou**

Kindaichi takes another deep breath, mouth stretching open to suck in Iwaizumi’s cock. His own twitches in interest, aches at the moan that slips out of Iwaizumi’s lips as he sinks down. His fingers flex in Kindaichi’s hair, tugging as he sucks, hollows his cheeks.

Iwaizumi’s skin is hot under his tongue, salty-bitter from cum and saliva and a hint of sweat. His thighs squeeze around him, muscles spasming, and Kindaichi gently bullies his legs apart, softly strokes the firm give of his thighs as he pries him open. The head hits the back of his throat and he relaxes like Iwaizumi taught him, taking it slow, pulling back before sinking down again, letting the entire length of him slide in and down his throat.

It hurts a little, and the angle is still awkward but he rewards himself with Iwaizumi’s choked gasp, how his shoulders jerk off the bed in shock. Kindaichi rolls his eyes up, waits until Iwaizumi’s eyes—dilated pupils and messed up makeup but still so perfect, still so beautiful—are on his before sucking hard, moaning around the shape of Iwaizumi in his mouth.

Iwaizumi’s body jerks forward again, unconsciously thrusting deeper. His nose hits Iwaizumi’s bare, waxed groin, but he holds in the discomfort, pushes Iwaizumi’s harder down on the bed and holds him there.

His lips tighten around the base and he lifts up completely, Iwaizumi almost crying out when his cock bobs out, gleaming with spit and precum and twitching pathetically, an angry red and leaking endlessly. He tries to go for it again, licking the corners of his lips, wiping his chin where the mess spilled out, but the second he gets his tongue on Iwaizumi’s balls, swollen and tight against his skin, he shakes his head, hand moving to push him away.

“Baby.” Iwaizumi sobs, squirming, legs kicking out, “Yuutarou, wait, _please_ —”

Kindaichi immediately draws back, eyes wide, worry seeping into the edges of his tone. “Is something wrong? Does it hurt anywhere? Did I—”

“Want you to fuck me.” Iwaizumi groans, skin sweat-slick, gleaming as his chest heaves with every breath. “Want to come with you fucking me, baby you’d feel so good…”

Kindaichi sucks in a breath, incredulous and so, _so_ turned on he’s sure he’ll come in his pants if he’s not careful.

He jolts back to life at the feel of Iwaizumi’s knee knocking against his side, the desperate little keen and the soft _hurry, Yuutarou_ that comes with it. “Ok.” he chokes out, shuffling forward to reach for the bowl of lube packets (already worryingly and embarrassingly half-empty), unzipping his trousers, moaning as his cock springs free. He just manages to slip his bottoms past his ass but he doesn’t even care for anything else other than getting in Iwaizumi as soon as possible.

He gets one finger in, watches with a dry mouth as Iwaizumi’s body tenses and tightens wonderfully. He pushes in another at Iwaizumi’s prompting, curling his fingers around and scissoring them, stretching Iwaizumi out to take him while his other hand slicks lube over his cock, squeezing at the base just to keep from blowing his load.

“I’m ready. Please Yuu, get in me. I want you. Nownowplease—”

He can never deny Iwaizumi on a good day. Especially not when he’s looking at him like that, eyes bright with lust, voice reedy and wanton. He pumps one more time, a smooth stroke from base to head, crawls forward and then—

He feels like all the breath’s been punched right out of his lungs. His eyes roll back, a long, needy groan ripping from his throat when the crown breaches that wet, velvet heat. He grits his teeth, grinds his jaws together until the ache distracts him from the mind-numbing pleasure. Fuck if he lets himself come so soon like he did the first time they did this, orgasming before he could even fuck Iwaizumi properly.

Iwaizumi is trying to ease the slide, holding himself open, staying relaxed, breathing slow until Kindaichi sinks to the hilt, his balls cradled against his cleft. He takes a deep breath, shudders a gasp or two before he can trust himself to open his eyes.

Iwaizumi looks stunning like this, skin alight with an aroused flush, torso slick with sweat and abs streaked with his own precum. He leans in, hooks Iwaizumi’s legs over his elbows so he can press their torsos together, feel the hardened nubs of Iwaizumi’s nipples scrape over his chest, kiss him on the lips and lick over his teeth, sharing Iwaizumi’s own taste with him.

“Is this ok?” he asks, between too-wet, too-loud kisses, keeping Iwaizumi’s jaws apart and open for his tongue, for the desperate little sounds that keep pouring out of Iwaizumi’s mouth.

“Perfect.” Iwaizumi groans, hands flying to his back, pulling him close, nails digging in for purchase. “God I’ve been waiting. Wanted you to fill me up as soon as I— _ah_ —walked through the— _fuck_ —”

Iwaizumi’s so wrecked, sentences and words devolving into a stream of cries and curses, hips gyrating, grinding his hardness against Kindaichi’s stomach, squirting precum on his skin with every inward thrust. His breaths go fast and hard, voice pitching higher as his orgasm approaches.

“ _Yuutarou_ ,” Iwaizumi grits out. Kindaichi can already feel him clenching around him, so hot and wet and _perfect_ , getting ready to milk his cum right out of him. “Will you be good for me? Bury your dick so deep in me I’ll be feeling it tomorrow?”

Kindaichi gasps, hips kicking instinctively, spurred on by the absolute filth spilling from Iwaizumi’s lips. Their hips smack together, harder this time, faster, wetter and more desperate.

“Gonna squirt your cum in me? Fill me up so much I’ll be leaking around your cock?”

“Yes.” Kindaichi shudders. “Anything you want, Hajime. Anything.”

Iwaizumi groans, head knocking back into the pillows. The bed is squeaking and the headboard is crashing against the wall but Kindaichi couldn’t care less, sits up and lifts Iwaizumi’s hips off the bed so he can fuck him harder, deeper, so he can watch his precum slide down the cuts of his muscles, gleaming pearlescent white on his skin. Iwaizumi’s back arches beautifully at the new angle, and Kindaichi moans with every forward snap of his hips, Iwaizumi tightening, convulsing around him in response.

“Give it to me, Yuu please I want it. Give—”

Whatever it was Iwaizumi wants to say gets cut off but a long, loud cry, in time with his cock twitching, cum spurting out in three jets, pooling hot and sticky on his stomach, some even catching on his chin, Kindaichi’s torso, the sheets, and if the sight of it all wasn’t enough, Iwaizumi fucking clenches down on him, muscles tensing in a pulsing rhythm and Kindaichi loses grip of everything else, hips jerking forward one last time before coming with a sharp cry.

Iwaizumi’s still twitching in places, the rush of his orgasm ebbing away slowly, but he still smiles lecherously up at him, moaning low.

“So good, baby.” Iwaizumi gasps, hand trailing from his groin to his neck, smearing the mess even more. “Sweetheart made me cum so hard.” he whispers, hoarse, cum-stained fingers coming up between his own lips and sucking from knuckle to tip.

 _God what did I ever do to deserve this?_ Kindaichi whimpers as he twitches one last time. Pulls out carefully, watching his white-streaked cock slide out of Iwaizumi’s gaping hole, his own cum dripping out to color Iwaizumi’s inner thighs.

“Plug me, Yuutarou.” Iwaizumi begs, and Kindaichi thinks he might just come again at the sight of Iwaizumi reaching down to push two fingers in his hole, stemming the leak of Kindaichi’s cum. “I want it inside as long as possible.”

Even with his limbs shaking like crazy, he crawls over to the nightstand, tugs the drawer open and grabs the metal plug from the mess, warms it up with the excess lube and shuffles back to Iwaizumi. He leans in to kiss him, one hand gently turning his head while his other teases around Iwaizumi’s hole with the toy. He’s so adorable like this: soft, pliant, tired, but still so responsive. He can barely even move but his hips still roll as Kindaichi presses the toy in. He pulls it out just a little, just so the flared end slips out and stretches Iwaizumi’s hole and he gasps, groans when Kindaichi slowly thrusts it back in, spent cock twitching a little when the toy slides home.

Iwaizumi whimpers, cheeks dusted an embarrassed pink, but he hums affectionately when Kindaichi leans in to meet him, kisses those abused lips and sucks the bottom one into his mouth.

“My Yuutarou.” Iwaizumi moans, low and sated, “So perfect.” Iwaizumi kisses him again, arms wrapping around him, lashes fluttering as he fights sleep.

“I love you.”

Kindaichi’s lips stretch into a smile, giggling softly as he nuzzles all over Iwaizumi’s face. “I love you too, Hajime.”

They accidentally fall asleep like that, and when they wake up sticky and flaky and smelling god-awful, Kindaichi doesn’t find himself regretting a thing.

 

-

 

**25 AUGUST 2016**  
**19:13**  
**Kunimi Akira**

“Bored?”

Kunimi looks up from the magazine to come face-to-face with the man who threw the one-worded question. Lithe. Brown-haired. Large brown eyes with a face that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. It takes a while to pin down his identity. Kageyama’s best man. His cousin, if he remembers the host’s words right. Shit, his name has completely flown Kunimi’s mind—

Too late. He’d already taken the seat beside Kunimi on the couch, crossing his legs and leaning back with all the intent of making himself comfortable enough for a long chat.

“You’re reading a two-month old edition of a magazine.” he replies smoothly, gaze slipping down to said magazine still in Kunimi’s hands.

Kunimi tries not to glare, keeping his gaze as civil and as blank as possible. He closes the magazine and returns it on the side table where the pile sits, clearly for people like him who have nothing better to do in events like these.

“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping the bridesmaid company?” Kunimi replies tersely, takes out his phone and pretends to fiddle with it, even though it ran out of battery a few minutes ago (why he was doomed to killing time the old-fashioned way in the first place).

“Nah, my sister’s husband just arrived. I’m sure she prefers his company.” Kageyama’s cousin says. There’s silence for a few moments. Kunimi continues to pretend-text, careful to angle his phone away so the blank screen won’t be visible, projecting aloofness as best as he can with his body language, hoping that he’ll get the message and leave.

“You know if you didn’t wanna talk, you could just tell me. Pretending to be busy on a dead phone is a pretty weak excuse.”

Kunimi’s thumbs pause in midair, gaze darting to the stranger beside him in shock he just barely managed to mask. “How did you—”

“If your phone was still alive, you wouldn’t have bothered with the magazines at all.”

He looks so proud of himself for being right. Kunimi resists the urge to roll his eyes as he pockets his phone. “Gunning to be a detective or something?”

He taps the corner of his eye, where it crinkles with his winning smile. “My eyes aren’t this big for no reason, handsome.”

Kunimi’s lips twitch in distaste at the pet name. So much for hoping that this guy isn’t a shallow pretty boy.

“Aren’t best men usually busy taking care of stuff for the groom during the reception or something?”

“The _other_ best man is keeping things running smoothly. Plus, Tobio-chan’s P.A. already handled most of the logistics pretty well.” Kunimi tries not to flinch at the subtle mention of Kindaichi. “My mother made me promise I’d stay off of my phone for tonight, aaand, I don’t have a plus one either so,” he shrugs lightly in conclusion, “I’m just as bored as you are.”

“I supposed there’s no point asking you how you knew I don’t have a plus one?”

“Nope.” _Figures,_ Kunimi thinks. “I wondered if they went to the bathroom or something, but you’ve been reading for the past ten minutes so I assumed you were really alone. Sorry about being nosy and all. I was actually hoping I’d find a kindred spirit.”

Kunimi almost conjures up a jab about how watching people is creepy, but he’s really not one to talk.

“I _had_ a plus one in mind though. But can you believe that he was already going to this wedding with someone else.” he continues, smile shifting to a playful little pout.

“That’s…kinda sad.” Kunimi answers lamely, not really sure what this guy wants from him.

“Sounds like a drama, doesn’t it?” he sighs forlornly, cradling his chin on his palm and looking out to the spacious hall. “There he is. You see Tobio-chan’s P.A.? The one with hair like a shallot. You see the guy hanging off his elbow? Him.”

Kunimi’s stomach suddenly feels cold, numbness trickling down to the tips of his fingers. He glances sharply at the stranger, wondering if he’s being played, but he only has eyes for Iwaizumi, who is, indeed, hanging off of Kindaichi’s arm, looking up at him, green eyes sparkling, hand cupped over his mouth as he laughs at something Kindaichi said.

The stranger sighs a little. Too quiet. One Kunimi wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t looking.

“Funny.” Kunimi says, voice tight. “Your supposed plus one is the plus one of _my_ supposed plus one.”

He jerks his head to the side so fast Kunimi almost jumps. His eyes are wide, mouth agape. It’s the most unguarded expression Kunimi has seen on him so far, and Kunimi doesn’t know how long they sit there just staring at each other, but then someone snorts, and in the next second they’re both laughing.

“That’s so,” the best man coughs out, delicately brushes tears out of his eyes. “Oh wow.”

He lets out a few more bursts of laughter, and for the first time in a while Kunimi’s smiling wide enough to make his cheeks hurt, belly aching with the unfamiliar ache from a full bout of laughter. “You know I don’t usually believe in fate and all that but this is just—” Kageyama’s cousin shakes his head, lets out a breath and laughs a bit more. When he looks up again he’s also smiling, more open this time.

“Excuse me, I haven’t introduced myself, haven’t I?” he straightens up in the seat, dips a little in a small bow. “Oikawa Tooru. Tobio-chan’s cousin.”

“Kunimi Akira.” he answers, returning the gesture. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re one of Tobio-chan’s co-workers then? I saw you on that table too.”

“Friend from middle school actually.” Kunimi corrects. “That was just probably the most convenient table to sit me in, considering the only people in that category are me and Kin...my supposed plus one.”

Kageyama had enough foresight to know that Kindaichi would bring Iwaizumi, so he placed Kunimi on a separate table, with the other high-tier employees of his. They were nice, but Kindaichi really is the only person Kunimi knows in this whole event.

Well… _was_.

“I know his name.” Oikawa smiles. “Kindaichi Yuutarou? Tobio-chan’s PA. Really diligent. Thorough with his job.”

Kunimi narrows his eyes just a bit, age-old protectiveness surging up just as strong, even after everything. “Collecting information so you can steal back your supposed plus one?”

“Nah. Just making sure he’s in good hands.” Oikawa chuckles, then stops when he catches sight of Kunimi’s skeptical expression. “What?”

“Just…surprised. You don’t come off as the mature type.”

Oikawa shrugs, leaning back into the plush backrest. “You’re right. I’m really not. But some people are more important than my pride.”

“Enough about that,” Oikawa brushes off, before Kunimi can even do more than blink, and Kunimi’s eyes widen marginally when he realizes Oikawa’s sitting closer than he did earlier, “how did you _ever_ manage to stay friends with Tobio until now? I’m only here because I’m the brat’s cousin.”

“I’ve been told I have the patience of a martyr.” Kunimi answers flatly, wondering why he isn’t inching back, or minding at all that Oikawa’s knee is brushing his. “Also Kindaichi punched him in the face once. That really helped.”

Oikawa snorts, an entirely unrefined sound from someone who looks so well-groomed, but Kunimi finds it strangely appealing anyway. “Would it be too much to ask if you caught it on video?”

Kunimi almost surprises himself with the small laugh he lets out, but before he can respond, someone approaches the couch, champagne flutes in each hand, then stops. He looks up and sees Kageyama, his eyes wide and head turning between him and Oikawa like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“What’s up, Tobio-chan? Been sneezing?” Oikawa teases, swinging an arm up to sling over Kunimi’s shoulders. Kunimi spares him a short glance, then primly flicks the hand away. Oikawa’s eye twitches, but the hand obediently moves away.

Kageyama’s stare continues to jump between them. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“We just met, actually.” Oikawa says wryly.

Kageyama’s brow rises so far up it almost hides behind his bangs, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he looks over at Kunimi. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” he answers. Surprisingly, it’s not a lie.

“Why would anyone not be fine in my lovely company?” Oikawa crows, waving Kageyama off with a flapping hand. “Go now, Tobio-chan, shoo. So we can go back to talking about you behind your back.”

Kageyama’s expression doesn’t shift still, just hands Kunimi the champagne flute, then stares down at the one in his other hand, shrugs, and gives it to Oikawa before walking off.

“Usually he’d blow a fuse if anyone talked to him like that.” Kunimi says, his voice echoing in the hollows of the glass as he takes a sip.

“Eh, Tobio-chan ain’t shit.” Oikawa says as he rolls his eyes, taking a long drink. “He’s still the same snot-nosed brat to me.”

Kunimi lets loose a small smile “You’re fond of him anyway.”

“Guess that’s another thing we have in common.”

Kunimi glances back. Oikawa’s smile is warm and inviting, and Kunimi’s sure the sweet fluttering in his stomach is more than just from the champagne. Kunimi’s pretty sure one of the lobsters from the buffet table will flop to life, hop on the plant sitting on the side table and suddenly start singing _kiss the boy_.

Kunimi snorts behind the lip of his champagne flute, doesn’t miss how Oikawa’s eyebrows quirk a little in curiosity, and takes a small, coy sip.

Sometime in the night, between easy conversation and bites of the tiny appetizers the waiters are still parading around, Oikawa sneakily stretches his arms, yawns, and rests the limbs on the backrest, his hand landing just shy of Kunimi’s shoulder. He catches hesitation in his expression, just a hint, and Kunimi can’t help but find it cute, after all his earlier bravado.

He lets the hand stay where it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moodboard](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/161691310286/ode-to-broken-things-chapter-13-you-earned-it) for chapter 13
> 
> FINALLY IT'S FUCKING FINISHED TAKE IT AWAY IM NEVER WRITING CHAPTER FIC EVER AGAIN UHUHUHUHUHUHUH
> 
> enjoy lovelies


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